


Genesis of a Dragon

by InkInThePen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Do I Know Where This Is Going?, F/F, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Meta knowledge, Modern Character in Thedas, Multiple Wardens (Dragon Age), My Characters Don't Listen To Me, Ramblings In The Authors Notes, Trapped in Thedas, canon-divergence, regular updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2019-12-18 14:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18251297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkInThePen/pseuds/InkInThePen
Summary: A dwarf denied the throne, a noble bent on vengeance, a corrupted Dalish hunter, a mute carta enforcer, a one-eyed elven criminal, and an arson-prone mage from a different reality all walk into a bar. The bar is Thedas and Blight is on tap and it’s happy hour.It's the story you know, but bent in unexpected ways. The script is broken, ignored, and occasionally set on fire as the Wardens forge a new path to the future of Thedas.





	1. A Bloodied Circle (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is the result of me not being able to choose just one Warden OC to write about. So instead I took all of them and dumped them into the same universe and even added in a “person from our world gets trapped in Thedas” because I love all the tropes, apparently. Obviously this will be very OC heavy, and also probably canon-divergent series, because screw canon amiright? I do what I want.
> 
> I have a nice nest-egg of writing to start with, so hopefully I'll update fairly regularly.
> 
> Also note that I don't have a beta and I barely go back over I write more than once or twice, so please be gracious with my errors. <3

The first week of it was the worst. Waking up one morning to discover you suddenly inhabited a body not your own was, to grossly understate it, a bit disorienting. Even more confusing was the fact that everyone around him was dressed like they were ready for a renaissance fair or or a con. Except that was their day-to-day attire.

He thought for sure he was dreaming when he saw an elf browsing a dusty old book. An actual elf. Not someone wearing plastic glue-on ears. The elf looked normal at first glance, but his features were too elegant and streamlined to not be just a little alien. The elf’s eyes threw him even more. On top of being just a little too large and vibrant, the pupils were vertical, like a cat’s. 

When the elf caught him staring, he glared. “Can I help you, shem?”

Shem. His first clue.

Not long after he watched, slack jawed, as a boy no older than ten manifested a ball of light as a group of adults watched on. An older man saw his shocked expression and laughed softly. “He’s learning quickly, isn’t he? Barely been here a month, and already grasping the basics of the spirit tree. Watch out, these new apprentices are catching up to you.”

He could have maybe processed the fact that there were elves and people doing magic if not later that very same day he didn’t call up fire in his own hands. Despite his panic, the fire wasn’t… hurting him.

He’d been about to stop drop and roll when a man in armor approached him, hand raised. A wave of energy passed him over, and the fire disappeared. He swallowed hard—his mouth suddenly tasted of metal. 

“You know the rules, apprentice. No casting outside of classes without supervision. Just because the First Enchanter said you’d be taking your Harrowing soon doesn’t mean you can ignore the rules,” the armored man said, shaking his head.

First Enchanter. His second clue. The pieces started to fall into place, and he tried very hard to not have a panic attack in front of what was very likely a templar. 

“Right,” he spoke. His voice was different. Lower, more even, than before. “Sorry. Just… practicing.”

The armored man continued down the corridor, muttering something about mages and not getting paid enough.

He had panicked. Barely registering his actions, he’d all but run to what looked promisingly like a library. He’d grabbed a book off the first shelf without even checking to see what it was, found a vacant table, and opened the book and sat down.

He’d really hoped to the casual observer that he was just engrossed in the text, not fully experiencing an existential crisis.

This wasn’t happening. This was a dream. An extremely realistic dream. If not, then an elaborate prank.

Why—how the hell had he fallen asleep on his couch watching Game of Thrones and woken up in a video game? That kind of shit didn’t happen to actual people. 

He’d spent what felt like an eternity of trying to rationalize. It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t sure it ever would.

His downward spiral of existential dread had been interrupted by someone shaking his shoulder. He snapped his head up to see a face he’d only previously seen before behind a computer monitor. 

“Are you alright? You’re white as a sheet.”

Jowan. From the mage origin. Given that Jowan was here, he could assume this was before the Blight. That was useful to know, anyways.

He’d thought quickly, trying to come up with a reasonable way to play this off so no one would think he was possessed (which he supposed he technically was?) and get a templar to run him through. 

“Yeah. Just… it just really hit me, you know? The Harrowing,” he said. The templar had said something about his—or whoever’s body he was inhabiting—expecting a Harrowing soon.

Jowan looked surprised. He gulped—was that not the right thing to say? “Really? You’re that worried? But you’re always so confident.”

“Uhm… I just didn’t want you to see how scared I am.” He was fucking terrified.

Jowan’s expression softened. “You know you don’t have to hide anything from me. You’re my best friend, you can tell me anything.” Jowan shifted a little uncomfortably, “Honestly, you probably don’t have anything to worry about. Nira passed her Harrowing last month, remember? And she’s only seventeen. But to be fair, that’s Nira. Irving’s star pupil.” Jowan rolled his eyes. “Still, you’re easily the most talented of the current apprentices. I overheard Irving and Greagoir talking earlier, and they expect you’ll do well once the time comes.”

He listened carefully as Jowan spoke, trying to gather context. Someone named Nira was Irving’s favorite. That was usually whoever the Hero of Ferelden ended up being, right? And apparently he was supposed to be a competent mage. Great. So he was inhabiting a body with the power to set a city on fire, but none of the knowledge on how to actually control it. 

He’d felt his hands starting to heat up. He’d clenched his fists under the table, nails biting into his palms painfully. _Stop it, stop it, stop it…_ He’d managed not to burst into flames, at least.

Jowan had then grabbed the book laid out on the table. “What were you reading? I called you a couple times, but you were so focused I don’t think you heard me.” Jowan turned the book so he could read the cover, raising an eyebrow. “‘Koslun: Philosopher or Tyrant?’” He asked skeptically.

He’d sighed, realizing he was going to have to do a tremendous amount of bullshitting to keep suspicions from rising. Fortunately, he knew his Dragon Age lore.

“Yeah. The Qunari are more interesting than you’d think, especially with how they see magic. Did you know they fear magic so much they collar them and sew their mouthes closed?” 

Jowan’s face turned very, very white. He passed the book back so fast it might have been on fire. “Sounds like light reading. Come on, or we’ll be late for our afternoon lecture.”

He looked back down at the book and realized with a start that it was definitely not written in English. The letters were strange and blocky. There were a couple characters that he thought he could recognize if he squinted really intensely. It looked vaguely closer to ye olden English, like, from before Shakespeare. But that was all he could reasonably compare it to.

Marvelous. Not only was he trapped in a body not his in a place that was supposed to be fictional, but he was also now illiterate. An illiterate mage. Yeah, no way he was going to be able to explain his sudden inability to read. 

Fortunately, no one called on him to read out loud. 

He learned shortly enough that his name—or the name of the man who’s body he was wearing—was Edmund. 

Edmund Amell. 

Which meant he was inhabiting the body of a potential Grey Warden.

It was weird hearing people call him that, but he learned to respond to it quickly enough.

He’d spent most of the first weeks in the tower not talking much and listening like his life depended on it. Because it probably did. He listened in the lectures in silence with the text open in front of him, trying to learn the words on the page by listening to the instructors speak. It helped a little, but really not enough. Most of what they talked about sounded like nonsense anyways—something about repulsion fields compounding aura amplification in conjunction with minor spirit interceptors.

He was doomed. His calculus classes had made more sense than this. He knew general information about magic from codex entries, but when it came to actual technical know-how he was no better than the newest apprentice.

He used the lecture hours to get the hang of writing with a quill and ink on scrap pieces of parchment, which was significantly more challenging than he expected.

In the practice sessions where they were actually required to perform magic, he used nerves from his impending Harrowing as an excuse to not participate. Most of the instructors bought the excuse with sympathetic eyes and allowed him to observe. 

There was one that still made him participate, citing that “he would want to be well prepared.” 

He was handed a staff and instructed to cast a paralysis spell on one of the other apprentices.

There were so many ways for this to go wrong. 

He took a slow breath, trying to remember the information about paralysis spells from the game. 

_The caster saps a target's energy, paralyzing it for a time unless it passes a physical resistance check, in which case its movement speed is reduced instead._

Edmund gripped the staff in his hand, imitating the casting position from the game. It felt awkward and stiff.

He needed to use his mana to draw on energy from the Fade. Which would probably be a simple matter if he knew how to actually _do_ that.

Edmund took another deep breath and pulled from something deep within him. It felt… like a door opening, but the hinges were rusty and resistant. The door opened the slightest crack.

He felt energy pass from him towards the other apprentice, but nothing really happened. He glanced uncertainly at the instructor, who motioned that he should try again.

He refocused. That door inside him needed to be open more. He took another deep breath, pulling at the door.

It flew open, unleashing a torrent of power like floodwater.

He cast again.

The apprentices robes caught fire.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” He dropped the staff as the apprentice started screaming. “Stop drop and roll, come on!” Did the same principles for putting out normal fires even apply to magically conjured flames?

Edmund looked desperately to the instructor… who was not moving. He turned wildly to the other apprentices in the class. They weren’t moving either. No one in the entire hall was moving, except for him. And the still screaming apprentice who was currently wrapped in a rug, rolling on the floor.

He hadn’t paralyzed the apprentice like he was supposed to. He’d set him on fire… _and cast mass paralysis on everyone else in the room._

He reached back within himself and pulled that psychological… magical…. whatever door closed as hard as he could. The paralysis lifted, and the flames vanished. The poor apprentices clothes were mostly ash, now, leaving him nearly naked in front of his entire class. 

The instructor stared in astonishment that quickly turned to anger.

Edmund smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Harrowing nerves got the best of me.” The Harrowing excuse felt paper thin, but it’d held up so far. 

“Young man, you must regain control over yourself, or you will never master the de—the challenge.” The instructor scolded.

The demon, he completed silently. He knew something of what to expect. More than they thought he knew. But also, somehow less.

He was vaguely aware of the other apprentices staring at him and turned to see them wearing blatant awe and jealousy on their faces, which confused him.

It was cleared up for him later that evening when he found Jowan in the mess hall.

“Is it true?” Jowan said, dropping his plate on the table and sitting next to Edmund. 

He raised a brow. “Is what true?”

“Don’t start being humble now!” Jowan knocked his shoulder good-naturedly. “Keili says you cast mass-paralysis on the entire practice hall!”

“On accident.” He shrugged, going back to his porridge. 

“Ohoho, you may be able to fool old Enchanter Brigsby, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I know you, you’d never pass up a chance to show off. Where’d you find the time to learn such an advanced spell, anyways?” 

He added that to the list of attributes he was learning that described the actual Edmund. A talented mage who preferred the creation schools of magic, which caused some eyebrows to raise at his apparently sudden “proficiency” with fire. Despite his gifts, Edmund was apparently a troublemaker and rebellious often enough for most of the enchanters to expect chaos from him. And also apparently a showoff. 

Jowan was still going on about his apparently impressive spellwork when an unfamiliar elven woman seated herself on the other side of the table from him. Her yellow robes identified her as a full mage, no longer an apprentice.

She was… striking, was one word for it. Her hair was light enough to be mistaken for silver and pulled into what was a probably painfully tight bun at the top of her head. Her features were severe in the way that implied she rarely smiled. 

Jowan gave her a sideways smile. “Well well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence.”

The elf rolled her eyes. “Hello to you too, Jowan.”

“How’s it up in the nice mages quarters?”

She shrugged. “They keep me busy.”

Jowan snorted. “I bet. Between kissing up to Irving and snogging that templar of yours, it’s a wonder you have any time for lowly apprentices like us.”

“Just because you’re my friend doesn’t mean I won’t electrocute you, you know.” Her voice was cold, but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly. 

Jowan was unfazed. He tilted his head so he was looking down his nose at them and pitched his voice comically high. “I’m Nira Surana. I am practically perfect in every way. I scored higher on my spirit assessment than any other mage in twenty years. I took my Harrowing three years early.”

Nira Surana. Surana. Edmund gave her a contemplative look. She was the other mage origin. And apparently, actually a competent mage. But why was she already Harrowed? The Hero wasn’t supposed to undertake the Harrowing until right before Duncan’s arrival to the Circle, and she’d been a full mage for a month at this point.

He didn’t want to think about the possible implications.

Nira only looked amused. “I didn’t come here so you could sing my praises, but it is an unexpected surprise.”

Jowan groaned, biting into a leg of chicken. “Leave it to you to take mockery for a compliment. So what are you doing here?”

“I was wondering if either of you had heard the news. About what’s happening down south.”

“South?” Jowan asked. Edmund stilled.

“There’s a war effort going on in the Wilds. The king is calling for mages to support the army. Wynne, Uldred, and six other senior mages left this morning along with a squad of templars.”

“Really? How do you know about this?” Jowan asked, eyes wide with interest.

Nira shrugged. “Studying under the First Enchanter has its perks, like interesting information. You really should have accepted when he offered the role to you, Edmund.”

He filed that in with the rest of the information he’d gathered: offered to study under Irving, and declined.

“Well you know me.” He said with a non-non-committal shrug. “Besides, it seems to suit you.” 

“My dear Edmund, did you just offer the good lady a compliment?” Jowan laughed, “Watch out. Jealous is a bad look on a templar.”

“Shut up, you ass.” He flicked spoonful of porridge at that mans’ face. If he was gathering this correctly, Nira and Cullen were a Thing™. Which was strange, because he was sure the game had implied that Cullen and the female mage had a tentative flirationship at best by the time Duncan came around. 

One more thing that was different.

“How is that going, by the way?” Jowan rounded back on Nira. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing could land both of you in serious trouble if anyone actually found out.”

Nira gave him a hard look that clearly communicated her willingness to electrocute him. “What ever do you mean, apprentice? Ser Cullen simply supervises me as I study in the library, doing his duty as a templar serving the Maker.”

“Leave her alone. You’re hardly one to talk,” Edmund said, thinking very distinctly of a certain Chantry initiate. He made a mental note to see if he couldn’t find Lily somewhere around the tower. Maybe he could do something, keep things from getting out of hand?

Jowan shifted uncomfortably and returned to his dinner with renewed interest. 

“I should probably go. I still have to prepare tomorrow’s lesson for the new apprentices,” Nira stood. Edmund felt apprehensive as she looked at him and her silver eyes showed fear. “I… I’m sure I’ll see you again soon. Good luck.”

That was… odd. He gave Jowan a questioning look, and the man only shrugged. “You know she’s always been a little weird. I think all the special treatment has damaged her brain.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.” Edmund frowned. That wasn’t just odd. It was a warning. Nira was working close with Irving. She had access to information. She was worried.

The Harrowing. It was happening soon, then.

“Whatever. Come on, let’s go to the practice hall. You’ve got to show me how you cast that spell earlier!”

Edmund tried to protest, but Jowan all but dragged him to the practice hall. It occurred to him that Jowan was desperate to learn, to become a better mage. The reason Jowan turned to blood magic was because he was terrified of Tranquility. 

Jowan was a good guy, just not the best student, apparently. Maybe it was just the learning environment that kept him from excelling. And blood magic itself wasn’t really the problem, as the games had lead him to believe. 

He did honestly try to recreate the spell and explain to Jowan how he did it. Over the course of an hour he failed to cast mass paralysis, but succeeded in setting the curtains on fire not once, but four separate times.

Somewhere, the universe was laughing at him. He was a _firefighter,_ for Christ’s sake. It was almost too ironic that any time he tried to do magic something went up in flames. 

“Well, on the bright side, your fire magic seems to have improved greatly,” said Jowan. “I remember you used to not even be able to light a candle. You must be really worried about this Harrowing if you can’t even cast straight.”

He frowned. The real Edmund apparently really sucked at fire magic. 

“I’ll feel better once it’s over with.” Edmund replaced the practice staff to it’s place on the rack. “Come on, let’s turn in for the night.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Duncan looked at the looming tower. The moon was bright tonight, its glow illuminating the surface of the lake. 

The senior Wardens who accompanied him had chosen to remain in the inn by the lake, deciding one Warden was enough to deliver the king’s message to the mages and probably make for a quicker visit and less fuss. 

A brief stop at the Circle on the king’s behalf to request more mages for the army, and then off to the deep roads for reconnaissance. He feared a Blight was beginning, but the deeps would need to be inspected before they could know for certain. 

For now, the tower awaited. Perhaps he might look at recruiting while he was here.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

He’d had some weird dreams before. None of them ever felt like this, however.

The Fade wasn’t green like in Inquisition or quite as brown in reality as it was in Origins, but it was strangely colorless, filled with shifting shades of grey. Half-buried pillars and strange tree-branches protruded from the ground at odd angles and statues floated in mid-air, featureless like mannequins. Edmund shuddered and forced himself to look away from them.

He followed the path set before him. Floating high in the horizon was a dark shape. The Black City, if he remembered right.

The Fade was shaped by perception, he reminded himself. He could impose his will on this reality.

Now he just needed to figure out how to actually do that.

Before long he came across “Mouse.” Edmund narrowed his eyes—he knew what to expect.

Mouse gave a long-suffering sigh. “Someone else thrown to the wolves. As fresh and unprepared as ever. It isn’t right that they do this, the templars. Not to you, to me, to anyone.”

Edmund nodded. “Yeah, templars kinda suck.” He eyed the rodent. Follow the script and play along, or…

“But they keep doing this, don’t they? We’re treated like rabid dogs, and we let them get away with it! It’s always the same. But it’s not your fault. You’re in the same boat I was, aren’t you?”

From a certain point of view, certainly. “Mages forced to face spirits, and spirits caged and forced to face mages. A shit deal all around.” 

If a rodent could frown, this one did. “I’m no spirit,” True. Not a spirit, but a demon. Mouse’s form glowed as he shifted to a human form and introduced himself. “Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me… well, Mouse.”

“I don’t have time for this,” said Edmund. “Look, I know what’s up. You play all meek and helpless, get my trust, I encourage you, you help me fight a rage demon. You butter me up to try and get me to let you in. Then, in a thrilling twist, you were a demon the whole time! Shocking! Only, not.”

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to antagonize what was likely a very powerful demon of pride, but Edmund found himself not caring. If he didn’t get help from somewhere, he was probably going to get himself killed.

He knew the script. Time to see what rules he could break.

“You…” Mouse narrowed his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice had a distinct reverberance it didn’t have before. “You know?”

“Look. I don’t want to have to fight you. The mages and templars caged you here to serve as a test for apprentices, right?”

Mouse didn’t answer, and instead began pacing a circle around Edmund. He turned in place, keeping his front to the prowling demon.

Mouse laughed, voice significantly deeper than before. “I can see it now. There are pieces of you that don’t fit. Already possessed, but not. Wearing skin not yours, but not taken.”

“You can tell?” Edmund asked. If there was anyone he could get insight from, it was probably a spirit. Or demon. Whatever. 

“Curious. I wonder—if I rode your body, would both remain? Or would we all shatter in the collide?”

“I’d rather we didn’t find out.”

Mouse laughed. “Well. Now we are at an impass. I may simply have to kill you.” Edmund stilled. A death in the Fade… he remembered from the second game: death in the Fade lead to Tranquility.

“No.” He surprised himself by the authority in his voice. “I want your help.”

Mouse smiled. Its mouth was filled with teeth like razor blades. “A deal?”

“Of a sort.” Edmund shrugged. He dated a lawyer, once. He knew how to argue. “Like you said, I don’t fit. Can you put me back where I do fit?”

“No. I cannot do that.”

“Then teach me magic. If I can’t go back, I need better control, or to at least know what I’m doing. A Blight is coming. I need to help stop it.” If he couldn’t go home, he could use what he knew to change things. Make things better. And if he didn’t get some serious help with controlling his new powers, he was going to burn himself alive before he saw his first genlock.

Mouse resumed pacing. “Interesting. And what, little mageling, would you offer me in return? I cannot wear your skin. What else do you have to give me?” 

“Information.”

Mouse growled. “I am Pride, boy, not Knowledge or Wisdom. Try again,” the demon hissed, it’s skin becoming more purple and scaly.

Edmund crossed his arms. If he remembered a certain egg head correctly, Pride could form from Wisdom. Maybe he could still appeal to that nature. “Exactly. You will know things no one else in the world does. No one, but me. Just think for a second! You could bribe other spirits driven by those attributes with knowledge they could find nowhere but from you. You become the authority. I know things. Not just about where I am from, but about things here that haven’t even happened yet. If you help me, you could too.”

The exterior of Mouse was fully shed now, and Pride loomed over him. Edmund stood very, very still. 

“I accept,” said Pride. Edmund couldn’t bring himself to be relieved—he had, after all, made a deal with a literal demon. “You are a true mage. When faced with a test, most would answer the questions. You… you asked questions of your own.”

“It helps to have a cheat sheet,” said Edmund with a small smile.

Pride laughed. “Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by The Devil Went Down To Georgia, or How To Make A Deal With A Demon: For Dummies
> 
> Leave Kudos if you liked it. Leave a comment to cure my anxiety.


	2. A Bloodied Circle (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dwarf denied the throne, a noble bent on vengeance, a corrupted Dalish hunter, a mute carta enforcer, a one-eyed elven criminal, and an arson-prone mage from a different reality all walk into a bar. The bar is Thedas and Blight is on tap and it’s happy hour.
> 
> It's the story you know, but bent in unexpected ways. The script is broken, ignored, or occasionally set on fire as the Wardens forge a new path to the future of Thedas.

Every morning since what he silently referred to as the Incident, he half expected to wake up at home, or in a hospital. And every morning he found himself still in the tower. The morning after the Harrowing was no different.

“Are you alright? Say something, please…” Jowan was leaning over him. 

“I’m… I’m okay,” he said, sitting up slowly. He was alive. So the demon had let him go, and the templars hadn’t stabbed him. An excellent turn out, all things considered.

“I’m glad you’re alright. They carried you in this morning. I didn’t even realize you’d been gone all night.” Jowan shuddered. “I’ve heard about apprentices who never come back from Harrowings. Is… is it really that dangerous? What was it like? I know I’m not supposed to know… but we’re friends. Just a little hint and I’ll stop asking, I promise.”

He’d made a deal with a demon. It was going to come back and bite him in the ass, but he could at least hope it would be a long time from now.

“I had to enter the Fade.”

“Really? That’s it?

“Basically. And if a demon possess you, they kill you,” Edmund explained. If the game was anything to go by, Duncan might be here today. Jowan might make his escape today.

“That… makes sense. They want to see if you can resist a demon and stop yourself from becoming an abomination. Thank you, for telling me. I asked Nira when she went through hers, but she wouldn’t tell me. I feel better at least, knowing.” Jowan sighed. “And now you get to move up to the nice mages quarters upstairs. I’m stuck here and I don’t know when they’ll call me for my Harrowing.”

“I… I’m sure it will be any day now.” Edmund said, but Jowan clearly picked up on the uncertainty in his voice. 

“I’ve been here longer than you have! Sometimes I think they don’t want to test me.”

“Maybe. Maybe they’re just waiting to make sure you’re ready.” They weren’t.

“The Tranquil never go through a Harrowing,” Jowan said softly. “You do the Harrowing, the Rite of Tranquility… or you die. That’s what happens.”

“I know, Jowan.” Edmund rose from the bunk. “Look, we can talk more about this later. I should go see the First Enchanter.”

“Oh, yes. I was supposed to tell you to go see Irving as soon as you woke up. I’ll see you later."

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Nira sat in the chapel, listening to the priests reciting the Chant. She offered up a prayer of her own, though she still had yet to get a straight answer out of the Sisters if the Maker even listened to elves. Still, she gave thanks that Edmund had passed his Harrowing. With luck, her friend would be waking shortly.

“Blessed art thou who exists in the sight of the Maker…” An apprentice knelt before the statue of Andraste and prayed fervently.

“Blessed art thou who walks in His steps.” Nira completed the prayer. The apprentice turned to see her, and Nira recognized her as Keili. 

“Oh, hello—Would you care to join me?” 

Nira took a knee beside Keili, who resumed her prayer. Keili turned to her as she finished. “I recite the Maker’s blessings every day. It brings me peace in troubled times.”

“And are you in trouble?”

“No, not really. It’s just…” Keili fidgeted with her robes, “I don’t want to bore you with this.”

“Are you sure? I might be able to help.”

“I hope that one day, the Maker might hear us. That maybe I’ll be forgiven, and this curse will be lifted.”

Nira frowned. “You mean magic.”

“Of course. What else?”

Nira could understand Keili’s point of view, she supposed. But she also lacked the context of what not being a mage was like. All she knew was the tower, and the power inside her. “Why do you say magic is a curse?”

“Magic causes such misery. It is dangerous and vile and wicked. The Chantry must protect the world from us. Being born with something so terrible must be a punishment. I wish I could be rid of it,” said Keili, staring wistfully up at the statue of the Maker’s Prophet. 

“There’s Tranquility. But that seems a fate worse than death,” said Nira.

Keili’s eyes lit up. “Yes—that removes all magic, forever, doesn’t it? Perhaps I shall request it.”

Nira placed a hand on Keili’s shoulder, a plea in her eyes. “No, Keili. You do not want that. You… you are far too pretty to be made Tranquil. You would be at terrible risk.” She saw what happened to mage girls who lacked the will to say no.

Keili frowned. “Then perhaps this is simply something I must suffer through. I should go. My mentor only allows a few minutes every day for religious contemplation.”

“You are not alone. You can speak to me about your fears if you feel the need, though of course there are Chantry Sisters who may be better suited to help you.” Nira nodded to her and stood. “I hope you succeed in turning the Maker’s gaze on you.”

She made her way to the study rooms, searching for a particular tome on wards. As she browsed the shelf in question, an elf seated at one of the tables cleared his throat loudly.

“Do you need something? If not, please move. You’re in my light.”

Nira glanced at the elf and rolled her eyes. “Hello to you too, Eadric.” She glanced at the text laid out in front of him. “‘Elven Blood In Tevinter Rituals.’ Isn’t that book banned?”

“I got permission from the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander, don’t worry. It’s fascinating—our people are more attuned to magic than humans are… or at least, our ancestors were. That’s why so many ancient Tevinter rituals specifically call for elven blood. With so much of our history lost, looking to Tevinter is the closest we can get for clues. I suppose we’ll never really know for sure.” Eadric shrugged, turning the page idly. “Maybe the Dalish elves would know, but I’ve never met one.”

“Dalish?” She’d read something about the Dalish, but elven culture wasn’t really her focus. She identified more as a mage than an elf, anyways.

“They live in the wilderness, traveling where they will. I’ve heard they keep the old beliefs alive.”

“I wish I knew the old language, at least.” Language—that was something she was good at. Her grasp of ancient Tevene was passable, but there were some ancient rituals recorded exclusively in the dead language of their ancestors.

Eadric nodded. “As do I. Perhaps one day I will have the chance to learn it. Say, are you from an alienage? I’m from a farm outside Highever. My mother worked as the cook’s assistant there.”

Nira frowned. “My mother was a mage apprentice; I was born to the Circle. Irving once told me I have relatives in Denerim’s alienage, but I’ve never been there or met them. I was given to the Chantry, and then I showed subtle signs of magic when I was two years old, so… they just kept me here.” 

“Oh. Wow.” Eadric shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter where we’re from, does it? We’re in the Circle.”

“I suppose so.” Nira spotted the book she’d been searching for and pulled it from the shelf. “I’ll get out of your light now. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Good day.”

Tome in hand, she returned to the First Enchanter’s office.

But first, she made a detour to the outer hall.

Cullen was standing at his usual post, hands clasped behind his back. She smiled as she approached him, and he grinned that goofy grin of his when he saw her. As there was no one else in the hall with them, she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said. As if the two of them didn’t have each other’s schedules and routines memorized by heart at this point.

Cullen blushed and stammered. “H-hello there…” He rubbed the back of his neck and laughed softly.

“I’ll be practicing some dangerous magic later. I may require some… supervision.”

At first, Cullen’s interest in her had only been… a convenience. If she got a reputation as “Cullen’s girl,” then the other templars—the more dangerous ones, specifically—left her alone. And so long as the Knight Commander didn’t realize what was up, most everyone else was content to let them be.

But as time went on, she realized that she had actually developed feelings for him. He was charming, and a gentleman—never once asking more of her than she was willing to give. Often he was content to simply sit and read with her in silence, or play a friendly game of chess. And he made her laugh.

“Well. I must… c-certainly do my duty. We wouldn’t want any, ah, out of control spells, w-would we?”

Nira giggled. That stutter would always be adorable. “Same time as always?”

“Never miss it.” In one of his occasional moments of confidence, he lifted her chin, gently, so she could pull away if she wanted. When she did not, he pressed a kiss to her mouth. 

“I need to go, Irving’s expecting me. I’ll see you later.” She turned and left her templar blushing in the hall.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The Knight Commander had not taken the king’s request well, as Dunacn expected. The Knight Commander and First Enchanter argued around him while he waited for them to come to a decision.

“So many have already gone to Ostagar—Wynne, Uldred, and most of the senior mages! We’ve committed enough of our own to this war effort—”

“‘Your own?’ Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir? Or are you afraid to let the mages out from under Chantry supervision where they can actually use their Maker-given powers?” Irving crossed his arms in irritation. 

Greagoir matched his posture. “How dare you suggest—”

Dunan looked past the arguing men to see a young dark-haired man leaning in the doorway, looking on with great amusement. Duncan cleared his throat loudly. “Gentlemen, please. Irving, there is someone here to see you.”

“Don’t mind me. I was just about to pull up a chair and some snacks,” said the younger mage with a shrug. 

Greagoir scowled. “This one has always been insolent.”

“Come now, Knight Commander. This is our newest brother in the Circle.” The First Enchanter motioned that the young man should join them. 

Dunan glanced over the man as he approached. He was tall and handsome, and despite his lean build there was strength in him. Irving had mentioned this mage when Duncan first arrived—one of the fastest Harrowing’s in the Circle’s history, apparently. He definitely held promise. “This is…?”

“Yes. This is he.” Irving nodded. Irving had said that despite the mage’s gifts, his temperament was not well suited to the Circle. Duncan hoped to take the man as a recruit, if the Knight Commander would allow it.

“Well Irving. You’re obviously busy. We will discuss this later.” Greagoir left the room, shaking his head as he went. 

“Of course. Now then… where was I? Ah, yes. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens. Duncan, this is Edmund Amell.”

The man inclined his head in Duncan’s direction. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“You have heard about the war brewing in the south, I expect,” said Irving, “Duncan is here recruiting mages to join the kings army at Ostagar.” 

“To combat the darkspawn, yes, I am aware. You’ll need all the help you can get, I expect,” said Edmund. 

“That is correct. The power you mages wield is an asset to any army. Your spells are very effective against large groups of mindless darkspawn,” said Duncan, “I fear if we do not drive them back, we may see another Blight.” 

“It’s already too late.” The mage sighed. Duncan raised a brow, but before the young man could elaborate his thoughts, the First Enchanter spoke. 

“Duncan, you worry the poor boy with talk of Blights and darkspawn. This is a happy day for him,” Irving said. A pale elven mage walked in, carrying a dusty tome in her arms. She cast them a curious look, but set the tome on the First Enchanter’s desk. 

“We live in troubled times, my friend,” Duncan warned.

“We should seize moments of levity, especially in troubled times.” Irving nodded to the elven mage. “Thank you, Nira. You have been a great help. You may take the rest of the day for independent study.”

“Of course, First Enchanter.”

Duncan recalled Irving mentioning her, as well—a gifted mage who knew nothing but Circle life. Irving was grooming her to someday take over his position, or perhaps take on the role of Grand Enchanter some day. 

“Now,” Irving turned back to Edmund, “The Harrowing is behind you. Your phylactery was sent to Denerim. You are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi.”

Edmund let out a long sigh, tensing visibly at the mention of the phylactery. “Thank you. It’s good… to have this behind me.”

Irving nodded in approval. “I present you with your robes, your staff, and a ring bearing the Circle’s insignia.” Irving took the items in question off his desk and held them out to the young man. “Wear them proudly, for you have earned them.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Edmund muttered softly. Irving frowned, but continued.

“It goes without saying that you shall not discuss the Harrowing with those who have not undergone the rite. Now… take your time to rest, or study in the library. The day is yours.”

“If you say so.”

Irving glanced at Duncan, seeming to now remember that he was in the room. “Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan back to his room, child?”

“Of course.” Edmund smiled.

“If you’ll both excuse me, I have matters to discuss with Geagoir,” Irving said, waving them off.

Duncan followed the young man down the hall. “Thank you for walking with me. I am glad for the company.”

“It’s no burden. Besides, I wanted to talk with you more,” said Edmund.

“Yes? What about?”

“I…” the young man paused, seeming to be experiencing some inner argument with himself. “Nothing much. Just, I’m honored to meet you, is all.”

“Thank you, dear boy.” Duncan smiled. It was nice to hear, especially when he faced hostility as a Warden more often then not. 

They walked in silence a few paces more until the young man could apparently no longer contain himself. “I want to join the Grey Wardens,” he blurted suddenly.

Duncan raised a brow at him. “Oh, do you?”

Edmund nodded, looking at Duncan with intensity. “The darkspawn are a menace. And I don’t want to let someone do the fighting for me, not I have power and knowledge that could help stop them and save lives.”

“But you could do that simply by requesting to join the kings army. Why, specifically the Wardens?” Duncan watched the young man carefully.

“Because I know. I know this is a Blight, and I know there aren’t enough Wardens in Ferelden right now to stop it. You need all the help you can get. You need me.” Edmund squared his shoulder, voice resolute.

If nothing else, the boy already sounded like a Warden. But Duncan narrowed his eyes at the mage. “How could you know this is a Blight? It is only rumor at best.”

Edmund laughed. “Recruit me, and I might even tell you. Oh, look. This is your room.” Edmund opened a door on the hall, gesturing that Duncan should enter. It was a very blatant attempt to not answer that question. Another mage was standing a ways down the hall with the elven woman from earlier, both of whom were clearly waiting on Edmund. “Look, I’ll… talk to you later. Probably.”

“Yes. I expect so,” Duncan mused. He watched the dark-haired man run off to his fellows and shook his head. He would make for an… interesting Warden.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Edmund sincerely hoped he hadn’t totally botched things with Duncan by going off-script. As it was, he prepared for the imminent “quest” before him. Jowan was fidgeting so nervously he may as well have had an exclamation point over his head.

What threw him was the fact that Nira was standing next to Jowan, though she seemed more annoyed than anxious. He supposed the three of them—Nira, Jowan, and Edmund—were friends, and it made sense Jowan would include her in this too if he trusted her.

“I’m glad I caught you too,” said Jowan, “Are you done talking with Irving?”

“For now, at least.” Edmund shrugged.

“I need to talk to you. To you both,” said Jowan. “Ed, do you remember what we talked about this morning?”

Nira raised a brow at the apprentice’s hushed tone. “Why are you whispering? It looks very suspicious.” 

Jowan shushed her, looking around in wild alarm. “I—I just want to make sure we’re not overheard is all. We should go somewhere else. I don’t feel safe talking here.”

“You’re starting to worry me, Jowan,” said Nira.

“I’ve been… troubled. I’ll explain, just follow me.” Without another word he turned, leading them towards the chapel. He lead them to where Lily stood in a prayer alcove. “We should be safe here.”

“In the chapel? The templar’s favorite haunt?” Nira said, looking around. A few other templars, mages, and priests were occupying the rows of seats, but none of them paid their conspiratorial group any mind.

“We can see everyone from here. Anyone comes close or looks our way, we can change the subject,” said Lily.

“I’ve seen you around before.” Edmund said. Technically true. She was always just a collection of pixels, though. 

Lily nodded. “I often attend my duties in this chapel. Perhaps that is why I seem familiar.” 

Jowan blushed ever so slightly. “I told you both a few months ago that I… met a girl. This is Lily.”

Nira looked rightly scandalized. “Jowan, you’ve been giving me shit about Cullen for months now, and this entire time you’ve been carrying on with an initiate? Shame on you.” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Again, her voice was cold, but her eyes betrayed fondness. 

Edmund gave Lily a sad look. “My condolences, Lily.” _For everything that’s about to happen. I’ll do what I can._

Jowan chuckled, “Very funny, Ed.”

“So what is this all about? You can’t have pulled us here just to have a friendly chat about love.” Nira smirked. “Need me to tell you about the birds and the bees? You are old enough to know now, after all.”

Edmund wondered idly how much time Nira spent around Wynne.

“Maker, no!” Lily and Jowan cried in unison.

Jowan sighed. “Remember when I said that I didn’t think they wanted to give me my Harrowing? I know why. They’re going to make me Tranquil.” Jowan’s voice was shaking. “They’ll take everything that I am from me—my dreams, my hopes, fears… my love for Lily. All gone…” 

Nira’s eyes softened. “Oh, Jowan…”

Jowan fidgeted with his robes. “They’ll extinguish my humanity! I’ll just be a husk, breathing and existing, but not truly living.”

“But why would they do this? You’re not the strongest mage, certainly, but you’re hardly a danger.” Nira said, disbelief all over her features. 

“Thank you for your endowment of my mediocrity. There’s… a rumor about me. Some people think I’m a blood mage.” 

An accurate rumor, Edmund thought silently.

“And so they think making you a Circle mage will endanger everyone.” Nira muttered, piecing it together for herself. “How did you find out about this?”

“I saw the document on Greagoir’s table. It authorized the rite on Jowan, and Irving had signed it.” Lily explained. 

“Do you know anything about this, oh Irving’s-right-hand?” Edmund side-eyed Nira. 

She shook her head, clearly shaken by the thought. “No. Believe it or not, Irving doesn’t tell me everything. He knows Jowan’s my friend, and Irving’s like a father to me. He probably didn’t… didn’t want to hurt me.”

“There’s only one thing to do then, isn’t there?” Edmund said. The three turned to look at him expectantly. “Jowan needs to escape.”

Nira looked completely aghast at the thought. “Are you insane? There has to be a better way, I wouldn’t reach for apostasy first. I could talk to Irving, try to convince him to change his mind, tell him Jowan isn’t dangerous.”

Edmund looked at Nira and recalled the mage origin was faced with a choice. Assist Jowan, or turn him in to Irving. His gut told him Nira was going to go for the latter. He sighed—in the long run, it didn’t really matter.

“I have a sinking feeling that Irving won’t be changing his mind,” said Edmund.

“I need to destroy my phylactery. Without it, they can’t track me down. We need your help—both of you. Lily and I can’t do this on our own.”

“Give us your word that you will help us and we’ll tell you what we intend,” said Lily. 

“I-I…” Nira stammered, then looked away from the young couple to stare at the wall. “Let me talk to Irving first. Please. I can get him to see that these rumors are foolishness and nothing more. There will be no need for any of this.”

Jowan looked pained. “He won’t listen. Look, try if you like, but… don’t take too long. And try not to be suspicious. If he finds out, we’re done for.”

“It will be fine, Jowan. I promise.” Nira gave a weak smile and then all but fled the chapel. The three of them watched her go in silence. Edmund knew she would sell them out.  
Here goes nothing. “I’ll help you,” Edmund offered. 

Lily breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you. We will never forget this.”

“Right. So we need to get into the repository, but don’t have the keys. I’ll talk to Owain and see about getting a rod of fire to melt through the locks instead. I’ll go, you two stay here. Wait and see if Nira comes back and what she has to say.”

Jowan blinked. “Wow. You came up with that… really fast. Been planning your own escape, have you?”

“Of a sort. I’ll be back.”

Edmund had made a very pointed effort to avoid the Tranquil during his month in the tower. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded, as they were kind of… all over. Quiet so that they were very easily overlooked, but he saw them enough to be unsettled by the sheer number of them that roamed the tower, performing tasks like robots.

Owain looked at him with emptiness as he approached. Edmund tried very hard not to look at the sunburst brand on the man’s forehead. “Owain. I need a rod of fire, please.” he said shortly. 

“Rods of fire serve many purposes. Why do you wish to acquire this particular item?”

“I need it for research on… burning things.”

“Here is the form—‘Request for Rod of Fire’.” Owain passed him a slip of paper. He was uncannily reminded of when he had to get his parents to sign permission slips in elementary school. Except those were in a language he could actually, you know, read. “Please have it signed and dated by a Senior Enchanter. I will release the rod to you once I have the signed form.”

“I’ll be back soon.” 

Edmund did not wait for the Tranquil’s farewell and turned, heading towards the door to the Circle’s storage tunnels.

“Senior Enchanter Leorah,” He said as he approached an older elven woman who stood by the doors. She turned her attention to him. “I’m here to help with your… little problem.” He gave a sidelong glance to the storage door. The elven woman’s face paled. 

“You—what? How do you know about—”

“Not important how I know. What’s important is that Irving doesn’t find out, right?” Edmund felt a little bad about blackmail, but he needed this form signed somehow. And there was no way he was going to Irving about this. “Sign this request form for me, and I’ll deal with the spiders for you.”

“You’re quite brazen, aren’t you?” Leorah frowned at him.

“Look, if you don’t want my help…” Edmund started to turn away, but the enchanter caught him by the arm.  
“Wait! Wait. Let me see that form.” She all but took the form from his hands. “A rod of fire, hm? Fine. Clear out those spiders, and not a word to Irving.”

“My lips are sealed.” Edmund turned. Time to kill some spiders. Some very, very large spiders. At least it would be a change to practice his spellwork without anyone watching. 

Edmund shuddered. Welcome to Thedas.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

She ran into the unfamiliar man she’d seen conversing with Irving and Greagoir earlier as she headed to the First Enchanter’s office. Despite his armor he was no templar—he lacked the distinct smell of lyrium. 

Nira would not have spoken to him if he had not first addressed her. 

“Greetings, you are Irving’s pupil, are you not? I saw you earlier, and regretted that we did not have the chance to speak.”

“I—yes. My name is Nira Surana.” Nira bowed the the man. He was Irving’s friend, and worthy of at least passing respect.

The man returned the bow. “Well met. I am Duncan of the Grey Wardens.”

“May I assist you, Ser Duncan?”

“I’m simply enjoying the splendors of the library. The Circle of Magi is fortunate to have so many wonderful books at its disposal.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” She eyed the tome the man had displayed on the podium. _Effective Magics and Tonics: Slowing the Blight._

“Perhaps. I shan’t bore you with the details, though. You seem preoccupied. Might I ask what you’re doing?”

Nira shrugged, running the index of the library in the back of her mind. “I’m simply on my way to see Irving, I had a question for him pertaining to the finer points of countermeasures to the ambient effects of reverse-warded glyphs.” She learned this strategy early on—if a non-mage was bothering you, spout advanced magical theory. Their eyes glazed over before the fifth word.

Duncan, however, simply smiled. “I won’t keep you overlong, then. I simply wanted to ask you a few questions about the Circle.”

“I can spare a few moments, I suppose.” 

“Thank you. I seldom get the chance to speak with members of the Circle. A mage like yourself must must have opinions on the current affairs such as the war. As you know, the king is gathering an army.”

“Yes, I’d heard. Mages will likely be an asset in the war.”

“You do not fear using the power at your disposal, do you? It is dangerous, yes, but necessary,” Duncan said, and Nira felt she was being very carefully observed. 

“So long as that power is used responsibly. Magic is dangerous in any situation, and demands to be treated with respect and care, especially on the field of battle.” 

Duncan laughed softly. “You sound just like Irving. He has taught you well. Well, I’m sure you’ve better things to do than chat with an old man.” The Warden waved her off. 

“We don’t have much in the way of information on the Blights, but everything we have on darkspawn and the Blight plague should be in the study lounge, down the hall.” She said.

Duncan raised a brow in surprise. “Thank you. And good day, young lady.”

Nire continued on her path to the First Enchanter’s office. He seemed a decent enough man, and she could easily see him getting along well with Irving, even if he was a little odd. 

“Ah, child.” The First Enchanter turned to her as she entered the office. “I can see you are troubled. What is the matter?”

Nira shuffled in place, not sure exactly how to ask her question. “When will Jowan go through his Harrowing?” 

“When he is ready.”

“He is ready now,” Nira said. Jowan was certainly not the most gifted mage, and he all but paled in Edmund’s shadow, but he was competent. 

“I am sure you think so, but it is not your place to decide,” Irving waved a hand dismissively, but aimed a questioning look her way. “Why do you ask?”

“Jowan is afraid he’d going to be made Tranquil.” Nira had seen the Tranquil all her life. Most treated them like little more than furniture. She saw them as a threat—a warning at what the Chantry held over them. She did not want to see one of her oldest friends shuffle about the tower in a haze of nothing.

“And how does he know this? I suppose that young initiate he dallies about with revealed it to him.”

Nira’s jaw fell open slightly. 

Irving laughed softly. “You think I did not know? I know about your young templar, as well, though I understand why you keep him close. He is a convenient shield against more unsavory elements, and as he’s taken no specific… vows, on the matter, I have no need to report him to Greagoir.” Irving shook his head. “I did not become First Enchanter by keeping my eyes and ears shut. You should learn from that, child.”

Nira sighed. Lily, as an initiate in the Chantry, would have taken “those specific vows.” And thus violated Chantry law. But Tranquility for Jowan over an ill-advised romance… no, there was something else at play here. “Why, Irving? Why are you doing this to Jowan?”

“Greagoir says he has proof—eye-witness testimony—that Jowan has been practicing blood magic. I cannot say more.” Nira’s blood went cold. No. Jowan would never, _could_ never bring himself to consider the forbidden arts. “Were it up to me, things would be different. But the Chantry—” Irving sighed, placing a hand on Nira’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “I am sorry, child. This Rite of Tranquility will happen.”

Her throat felt almost too dry to speak. “You… you’re absolutely sure? There’s no way this could be a mistake? Jowan has for-sure been… practicing blood magic?” 

“There is irrefutable evidence. I am sorry, I know the lad is dear to you.”

“Then I suppose I must abide by the Circle’s will.” It was out of her hands. The Circle—and the Chantry by extension—always won out in the end.

“It must be done. It’s not such a bad thing. Jowan will come to terms with it, as will you.”

Come to terms with it. That was one way to put “no longer able to feel emotion.” Nira looked up at her mentor, wondering how many friends he had watched undergo the Rite in his years. Too many, likely. He didn’t want this any more than she did.

He did what was right, even if it hurt. She had to have that same strength.

“First Enchanter… there’s something you should know. Jowan is planning on escaping the tower.”

Irving frowned. “He asked you to assist him, and instead you came to me. You realize Jowan is breaking the Circle’s rules. I commend your loyalty.” Nira didn’t feel worthy of commendation. She felt sick to her stomach. “If Jowan wishes to destroy his phylactery and escape, help him do it.”

“Do you realize what you’re asking?” Nira asked.

“I could simply report them to the templars, but Lily has also broken her vows and must face like consequences. For this, we need irrefutable proof of her crime. The Chantry will stand behind her, claiming she has been framed or is in the thrall of a blood mage. There must be no doubt in their minds that she helped him voluntarily.”

“You’re right.” Nira straightened her posture. She was doing the right thing here. “If loose one of our own, we should not let another equally guilty hide behind the Chantry while our own suffers.”

“Astute as always, Surana. That is the kind of thinking necessary of a First Enchanter.” Irving’s face practically glowed with pride. “Every so often, we must remind the Chantry their members are not as perfect as they pretend. Tell Jowan and Lily you will aid them. Help them enter the repository, if that is what they intend.”

“We will catch them red-handed.”

“No one will be able to dispute the severity of their crimes.” Irving nodded. “Go. Convince them that you will risk all for their cause. I will wait outside the repository with a contingent of templars. Let them see the mischief into which their initiate has led our student.”

“Of course, Irving.” Nira turned to go, but stopped short, and looked back. “First Enchanter… they didn’t just come to me. Edmund knows as well. And… he committed to help them escape, almost no questions asked.”

Irving sighed, sadness coating his words. “Ah, of course. Jowan and Edmund have always been thick as thieves, and Edmund more than a touch rebellious. I’d hoped his Harrowing would mellow him, but alas…” said Irving, “If Edmund does not bring this matter to me, I cannot guarantee that he will not face severe punishment.”

“I… I understand, First Enchanter.”

“Now go on. Perform well, and you dedication will be rewarded.” 

Nira turned towards the chapel, determination guiding her steps. She was a Mage of the Circle. She would remain loyal.

She encountered Edmund in the hallway. She stopped in her tracks, blinking at the sight of him. His hair was pulled into a sloppy bun at the back of his head and seemed to be… smoking, just every so slightly. The shoulder of his robe was torn and his arm was bleeding onto the tile. 

“Maker, Edmund. What happened to you?” She crossed the few paces to him, bringing a healing spell to her fingertips and pressing it to his wound. It looked like a bite mark. A very large bite mark.

“I got into an argument with a rather disagreeable storage crate,” he deadpanned. “You made your choice, then?” His eyes were hard. Nira shifted. He looked almost as if he knew.

“I spoke with the First Enchanter. Jowan was right; Irving wouldn’t listen. They plan on going ahead with the Rite.” She turned away as soon as she was finished with his wound. “Come on. Let’s get back to Jowan and Lily.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by Sneaky Backstabbing Mages, or Fear Of Tranquility
> 
> Leave Kudos if you liked it. Leave a comment to solve world hunger.
> 
> Stay Lovely <3


	3. A Bloodied Circle (Part 3)

Edmund turned the rod of fire over idly in his hand. Why would mages need an item to produce fire when they could just conjure it straight out of their hands? Wasn’t it kind of redundant?

Jowan breathed a visible sigh of relief when he saw Edmund and Nira approach their little corner of the chapel. “Waiting makes me so nervous. What did Irving have to say?”

“You were right. Irving won’t change his mind about the Rite. Let’s get you out of here,” said Nira. Edmund had to give her points—if he didn’t already know she was lying, he might not have suspected her.

“I have the rod of fire.”

“That was quick!” 

“To the repository, then,” said Lily, leading the way. “Freedom awaits.”

Edmund heard Jowan whispering to Nira as they walked, “I’m so nervous things will go wrong.”

“What will you do after you escape?” asked the elven mage.

“Lily and I will get married somewhere… away from the Circle and it’s rules.” Jowan got a far-away look in his eyes. Poor guy actually believed they had a chance.

“Perhaps in the outskirts of Ferelden.” Lily lightly touched her lover’s hand with her own.

“Or in Orlais. Just… far from here. We’ll live a quiet life, away from magic. Maybe we can buy a farm one day.”

“Maybe look at heading to Rivain,” Edmund added absent-mindedly. “They’re not so strict about magic up there, and the Chantry has less influence. Though they do have more pirates.” Though if he remembered correctly, the Circle in Dairsmuid did get completely demolished in the mage-templar conflict. A problem to look at later, provided he lived to see it.

He needed to get a notebook soon, and write down everything he could remember about the game, every stray piece of lore. He had an excellent memory, but he didn’t want to risk forgetting, and he lacked access to the internet for answers. If he could use what he knew to save lives…

“That’s an interesting thought,” said Jowan. “For now let’s just concentrate on what we’re doing.”

They reached the repository, which was suspiciously un-guarded. Lily gave her obligatory about the Victims Door. Lily primed the door with the password, and Nira’s hands came alight with magic as she sent a bolt of arcane energy to the wood. 

The handle turned of its own volition, and Edmund pushed the door open.

Lily approached the next door and looked back at Edmund with excitement. “You have the rod, yes? Melt the locks off!” It wouldn’t work, but it also wouldn’t hurt anything to try. “What’s the matter? Why isn’t it working?”

“Lily… something’s not right… I can’t cast spells in here. Nothing works.” Jowan waved his hands uselessly.

Nira moved to inspect the door. “There are wards carved into the stone, a sort of combination of how the templars nullify magic and the spells we learn that can disrupt spell casting,” she said, tracing the runes. “If you gave me a week I could find an override. But we don’t have that kind of time.”

“I should have guessed!” bemoaned Lily, “Why would Greagoir and Irving use simple keys for such a door? Because magical keys don’t work. How do you keep mages away from something? Make their powers completed worthless! That’s it then, we’re finished. We can’t get in.”

“There’s a door just over there that leads to a different section of the repository where dangerous magical artifacts are kept. We might find a way in to the phylactery chamber through there,” said Edmund, starting to the door in question.

He wondered why this door wasn’t warded the same way. Because it actually needed accessed on occasion? But the phylactery chamber would need accessed whenever a new apprentice was brought to the tower. He sighed—don’t question real-life plot holes, especially when they’re convenient.

He threaded the tiniest bit of mana into the rod of fire, and it sparked to life. Rather than just casting a cone of flame, like it did in the game, it formed a small intense tongue of blue flame. It reminded him of welding tools. 

He set to work on the locks, melting through in short enough order. He nudged the door open and prepared his staff in his hand. “There will be sentinels guarding the hall. They will try to stop us.”

“You’re… very prepared for this.” Nira noted, also readying her staff. 

Edmund just shrugged. “Just call it intuition. Let’s go.”

After his… encounter, with the spiders in the storage room, Edmund felt he had a more reasonable grasp of his abilities. And he wasn’t entirely sure his bargain with Pride didn’t have anything to do with it, either.

As it was, he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t hit anyone on his side. 

He caught the first sentinel in a blast of fire. It stumbled forwards a few more paces before crashing to the floor, metal joins melting together. 

The second sentinel charged at them. Nira’s body let out a burst of magic, and the sentinel stopped, then fell, a motionless suit of armor. 

Edmund gave her a questioning look.

“The sentinels are clearly controlled with a similar spell to the Animate Dead enchantment, only modified for specific activation and attuned to metal, not flesh. Disable or disrupt the enchantment, it’s just armor.”

Edmund tried that particular trick with the next sentinels they encountered. While Nira’s dropped harmlessly to the floor, the one he targeted… kind of exploded. He sighed, and just decided to pretend he meant to do that.

He would just settle for setting them on fire.

The artifact room was a crowded space. It reminded him of Dumbledore’s office, actually, with curious gizmos and nick-knacks lining every shelf and table. “I wonder what all these things do,” he wondered, eyeing a shelf of multicolored glowing crystals. 

“All of these things are powerful and dangerous, likely connected to dark magics,” Nira said softly, eyeing the artifacts around them with open wariness. “Don’t touch anything.”

“Agreed,” said Lily.

Edmund ignored them and approached the prophesying statue. 

“There’s something odd about that statue,” said Jowan at his side. 

“Greetings,” the statue spoke. Even though he was prepared for it, the effect was distinctly unsettling.

“Maker’s breath! Did it just say something?” Jowan sputtered.

The statue of Eleni Zinovia gave her speech, and Edmund found himself mouthing the words as she spoke.

Jowan prodded the statue with a few questions, while Nira and Lily warned them off of it. 

“Eleni Zinovia,” Edmund addressed the statue. It had no eyes to look at him with, but he distinctly felt its focus shift to him. “What do you see of me?” Pride had noticed something out of place. Maybe she would, too.

“An untethered soul, sundered from heart and home. A hermit crab changes the shell, but stays the same within.”

“And the original shell?”

“Lies beyond my vision.”

“Bah, it’s all ambiguous rubbish. It could mean anything,” scoffed Jowan. “I can do it too, see? The sun grows dark, but lo! Here comes the dawn.”

Edmund glanced at Jowan. _The night is long and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon the dawn will come._ Huh. Maybe Jowan had a little prophet in him.

Nah. Probably just a narrative coincidence.

“Stop talking to it, please, both of you!” Lily begged.

“These things are locked away for a reason. Let’s leave it alone.” Nira turned, surveying the rest of the room and approaching the sagging wall. “I think the phylactery chamber should be on the other side of the wall behind this bookcase. And the wall looks like it could come down at any moment.”

“Hah, brilliant!” said Jowan. “We just need to find something that can knock it down. Here, Edmund, help me shift this bookcase.”

The two men shifted the bookcase while Nira inspected the amplification artifact. “This is an Auxiliaum Incantatiem, an old Tevinter artifact meant for amplifying arcane effects, though some scholars theorize they date back to ancient elven times. I’ve read all about them. They’re incredibly rare. The last official record of them is of Archon Vespasian in the Glory Age utilizing one for—”

“Hold your horses, Hermione,” said Edmund, rolling his eyes.

“—what?” Nira blinked at him.

“Nothing. Just, get out of the way.” Edmund moved to stand behind the artifact, aiming the rod through it. 

The resulting explosion didn’t just collapse the wall—it shattered it. Shrapnel flew about the chamber, and they would have been hit if not for Nira’s quickly erected barrier enveloping them. 

Several book shelves were alight with fire. Nira conjured ice to douse the flame and turned an incredulous look to Edmund. “I swear, what is it with you and fire recently?”

Edmund laughed nervously. “Just expanding my toolkit, is all. It’s all under control, ok?”

“Well, let’s not do that again, please,” said Jowan nervously. “The whole point is to not draw attention to ourselves, remember? I’d be surprised if the entire tower didn’t hear that blast.”

Edmund shrugged. They were going to get busted, anyways. “It’s the Circle, Jowan. Explosions are a fairly regular occurrence around here. Now, shall we?”

The next room was the phylactery chamber itself. There was snow collected around the walls and icicles tanning from the shelves. He should be cold, standing in that room, but he felt no different. Perk of being a fire mage, maybe?

“We must find Jowan’s phylactery quickly,” said Lily. 

“Pity ours have been sent to Denerim, yeah?” Edmund said with a glance to Nira, who did not meet his eyes.

“Would you destroy yours too, if it were here?” asked Jowan.

Edmund said “yes” at the exact same time Nira said “no.”

“You could still escape,” Lily said to Edmund, “I don’t think they’d be able to catch you. You’d know how to evade them. You’re clever… not like me.”

Lily had one thing right—she wasn’t clever. Kind, but not clever. Honestly, their escape plan was doomed even if Irving and Greagoir didn’t meet them outside the door. The phylactery would be destroyed, sure, but how did they plan on getting out of the tower itself? The only door out was heavily guarded and required not only a keys to open, but at least five men to actually move the massive doors, and Jowan likely escaped alone through blood magic.

“Let’s just find the phylactery,” Nira said, leading the inspection of the room.

Edmund browsed the shelves of red vials. They were all clearly labeled, but he still couldn’t read the script. 

“Here it is!” Lily called out. The three mages moved to where she stood, opening a small case. 

“That’s my phylactery! You found it!” Jowan took the vial in his hands, turning the glass over in inspection. “I can’t believe this tiny vial is all that stands between me and freedom. So fragile… so easy just to be rid of it… to end it’s hold over me…” Jowan dropped the vial on the ground. Edmund snapped his fingers, and small flames began to burn up the liquid. “… and I am free.”

“Then let’s move.” Edmund stomped out the fire and turned to the exit.  
“Jowan, I…” Nira’s voice was quiet, but echoed of the chamber walls.

“What is it?”

“… nothing. I’ll just miss you, is all.” Her gaze was fixed on the floor. 

Jowan didn’t seem to notice her shame. “I’ll miss you too. But we don’t have much time, let’s go.”

They climbed the steps of the stairs, and Edmund felt uncomfortable doubt overtake him. There was only one mage helping Jowan in the game, not two. What if Duncan didn’t recruit him? What if he recruited Nira instead? She would probably make a good Grey Warden. She was a powerful mage, and dutiful. He was a pretender who could barely keep from setting his own pants on fire.

Jowan let out a triumphal laugh as they exited the basement. “We did it, I can’t believe it!” The room was suspiciously empty, but that would change in a moment. Already Edmund could hear the approaching footfalls of men in armor. Jowan turned back to Edmund and Nira. “Thank you both so much… we could have never—”

“So what you said is true, Irving.” Greagoir lead the First Enchanter into the hall, and at least a dozen templars followed behind them. Cullen stood among them, Edmund noted.

“Gr-Greagoir,” Lily stammered, taking in the scene before them.

“An initiate, conspiring with a blood mage. I’m disappointed, Lily. She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall of the blood mage, then.” Greagoir glanced at Irving. “You were right, Irving. The initiate has betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished.” Greagoir eyed Edmund and Nira next. “And this one, newly a mage, and already flouting the rules of the Circle. And your own assistant is involved, no less!”

“It’s not their fault!” Jowan cried, positioning himself in front of them. “This was my idea!”

“I am disappointed in you, Edmund. You could have told me what you knew of this plan, but you did not.” Irving shook his head in disappointment. “But Nira is here under my orders, Greagoir. I take full responsibility for her actions.”

“You—wait, you… you led us into a trap?” Jowan turned, such heartbreak on his face that Edmund even looked away.

“Jowan… I’m so sorry, I—”

“Don’t you dare speak to me!” Jowan stepped away from her, reviled.

“Enough!” said Greagoir. “As Knight Commander of the templars assembled, I sentence this blood mage to death. And the initiate has scorned the chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar.”

Edmund felt time slow as Jowan went for a knife he’d lifted from a sentinel. He could stop Jowan. He knew what was about to happen. He could grab Jowan, hold him so he couldn’t do anything. Eamon wouldn’t be poisoned, Connor wouldn’t get possessed, and the people of Redcliffe wouldn’t have to fear the undead.

But Loghain would still make an attempt on Eamons life, that was certain. And if he didn’t use Jowan to do it… Edmund wouldn’t know how to stop it. There was no way he could save everybody. He had to keep the story close to where he could predict it.

“The… the mage’s prison. No… please, no. Not there!” Lily backed away hiding behind Jowan from the approaching templars.

He stood by and watched as Jowan slashed his palm. “No! I won’t let you touch her!” Power gathered around Jowan, and when he unleashed it, all the templars and the First Enchanter collapsed like puppets cut from their strings. A pool of blood started forming around Cullen.

Edmund stood to the side, watching as Nira shook herself out of her horror and rushed to the templar’s aid, healing magic ready at her fingers, and Lily backed away.

“By the Maker… blood magic! H-how could you? You said you never—”

“I admit, I… I dabbled! I thought it would make me a better mage.”

“Blood magic is evil, Jowan. It corrupts people, changes them…”

“I’m going to give it up. All magic. I just want to be with you, Lily. Please, come with me,” Jowan begged.

Lily turned her face away. “I trusted you. I was ready to sacrifice everything for you. I… I don’t know who you are, blood mage.”

Jowan fled.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Duncan followed the sound of the chaos down to the basement entrance to find a full squadron of templars, the Knight Commander, and First Enchanter, on the ground holding their heads as Nira Surana and Edmund Amell aided them to their feet. He halted in the doorway, observing the situation.

“As good as can be expected, given the circumstances!” Greagoir was calling out, “If you had let me act sooner, this would not have happened. Now we have a blood mage on the loose with no way to track him down!”

“He can’t have gone far,” said Nira. “You could still capture him.”

“Believe me, we will use our every resource. Where is the girl?”

Duncan watched as a priestess emerged from her hiding place behind the stairwell. “I… I am here, sir.”

“You helped a blood mage! Look at all he’s hurt.” 

“Lily did not know Jowan was a blood mage,” Edmund said, crossing his arms. Duncan saw the young man glance in his direction, the first to become aware of his presence. Almost like he expected Duncan to be there.

Lily held up a hand. “You’ve been a friend, but you needn’t defend me any longer. Knight Commander, I… I was wrong. I was an accomplice to a… a blood mage. I will accept any punishment you see fit. Even… even Aeonar.”

Greagoir motioned to the few templars who were on their feet. “Get her out of my sight.” He turned to the two mages. “You two. You were in a repository full of magics that were locked away for a reason.”

“Did you take anything from the repository?” Irving asked.

“No, First Enchanter,” said Nira.

“Very well.”

“Bah, these antics have made a mockery of the Circle! What are we to do?”

“I simply did as I was told.” Nira moved to stand slightly behind Irving.

“As I said, Nira was working under my orders.”

“And this improves the situation? The repository is off limits to all, save for you and me!” 

Irving crossed his arms. “I had my reasons. I take full responsibility for Nira’s actions. Though I cannot say the same for the second accomplice.” 

All eyes turned to Edmund. Greagoir directed his ire at the young man, instead.

“Do what you like,” Edmund shrugged, nonchalant. “I stand by my decision to help Jowan.”

Greagoir scowled, taking a threatening step towards the mage. “You helped a blood mage escape. All our prevention measures are for naught—because of you!”

Duncan stepped fully into the hall, inserting himself into the situation. “Knight Commander, if I may…” Greagoir gave him an irritated look, but did not interrupt. “I am not only looking for mages to join the kings army. I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens.” Duncan eyed the two young mages before him. Nira, at worst, would likely face solitary confinement, but otherwise she had a future in the Circle. Edmund’s fate was less secure, and he had already expressed an interest in the Wardens. His skills should not go to waste. “Irving spoke highly of this young man, and I would like him to join the Warden ranks.” 

Edmund actually breathed a sigh of relief.

“Duncan, this mage has assisted a maleficar, and shown a repeated lack of regard for the Circle’s rules,” said Irving. 

Greagoir nodded. “He is a danger. To all of us.”

Duncan placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It is a rare person who risks all for a friend in need. I stand by my decision. I will recruit this mage.”

“No!” Greagoir snarled, “I refuse to let this go unpunished!” 

“As a Grey Warden Recruit, it is no longer within your power to punish me, Knight Commander,” said Edmund, a smirk on his face. “That privilege is reserved for my new commanding officer, here.”

“Greagoir, mages are needed. This mage is needed. Worse things plague this world than blood mages—you know that. I take this young mage under my wing and bear all responsibility for his actions.” 

Greagoir shook his head. “A blood mage escapes, his accomplice is not only unpunished, but is rewarded by becoming a Grey Warden. Are our rules nothing? Have we lost all authority over our mages? This does not bode well, Irving.”

Irving sighed, exhaustion showing on his aged face. “Enough. We have no more say in the matter.”

“For whatever it’s worth, thanks for everything, Irving. It’s been a pleasure. And I expect I’ll see you again sooner than you expect.” Edmund inclined his head respectfully to the First Enchanter.

Irving sighed. “Be proud, child. You are luckier than you know.”

“Come,” Duncan said, “your new life awaits.”

“From the frying pan to the fire,” Edmund muttered. “Give me a moment to grab a few items, and we’ll be off.”

The young man left to gather his belongings. Duncan turned back to Irving and Greagoir, who were focused now on the elven mage.

“Irving, your meddling in this affair has made this more difficult than it needed to be. There must be consequences,” Greagoir said. 

“Nira did her duty by reporting Jowan to me as soon as she learned of his schemes, proving her loyalty to the Circle. Furthermore, she used her gifts to heal us after the blood mage attacked. As I said before, I will bear the full responsibility for her involvement,” said Irving. 

“That’s not good enough. There must be some punishment, if not to do justice, then to demonstrate to the rest that the authority of the Chantry is still to be respected. Knights,” Greagoir addressed the rest of his templars who had finally regained themselves. “Please escort Nira Surana to the solitary confinement cells. She will be kept there while we conduct an investigation as to how far this corruption spreads.”

“But—I—First Enchanter?” The young mage looked desperately to Irving.

“Greagoir, you cannot—” Irving protested.

“You’ll find that I can, Irving, and that you should be grateful that I am only sentencing solitary confinement. Likely the investigation will be over before the months’ end and you’ll have your assistant back in no time.”

Duncan watched as a blonde templar escorted her away. He was on thin enough ice with the Circle—he didn’t need to damage relations permanently by recruiting two mages when just one had incited fury. She would be fine.

Edmund returned not a moment later, a light pack slung over his shoulder. “Let’s be off.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Fresh air filled his lungs for the first time in what felt like ages. Duncan was quiet on the ferry ride to the shore, but it gave Edmund time to think.

Nira’s existence proved that there were probably other “Player Characters” wandering around out there. Tabris, Aeducan, Cousland, Mahariel, and Brosca. Maybe they didn’t need to head right to Ostagar. Maybe they could look at hitting up one or two of these locations to pick up more recruits.

“What’s the plan, Duncan?” Edmund asked.

“The rest of my traveling party will be waiting for us at the inn. From here, we will go to Orzammar. The king has requested we approach the dwarves for aid, and we need to scout the deep roads in order to determine if this is truly a Blight.”

Edmund raised a brow. “You say that like you don’t already know it is.”

Duncan gave him a curious look. “I cannot ask the king to act on my fears alone.” 

Edmund was quiet the rest of the way to the shore. He couldn’t decide on what to tell Duncan. He could barely believe the truth himself.

They were headed to Orzammar. That much was already different than the game, which usually faded to the cutscene arrival at Ostagar immediately after the protagonists’ recruitment. He could try to convince Duncan to recruit Brosca and Aeducan while they were there.

Three other Wardens waited for them on the shore, all of them human men. Duncan made brief introductions, naming the other Wardens as Sam, Oliver, and Farrien. 

“This is Edmund Amell, our newest brother in the Order.”

Sam nodded. “Excellent. Welcome, we look forward to having you in our ranks. Duncan, did the Knight-Commander agree to send more mages for the king’s army?”

“I am afraid Greagoir and Irving will be loathe to release any more mages than they already have. What we have will have to work. His Majesty will have to be disappointed.” 

“Can’t say you didn’t try. We best get underway, the sooner we get to Orzammar, the sooner we can bring definitive word to the rest.” 

Without further ado, they were underway. Edmund realized he was faced with an even greater challenge than before—survive outside the Circle in a world he had no practical experience in.

This… would be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by Hogwarts, or Why Don't We Ever Hear About Aeonar Ever Again Like There's Serious Potential There.
> 
> Leave Kudos if you liked it. Leave a comment to cure my depression.
> 
> Stay Lovely <3


	4. A Kingdom Beneath (Part 1)

Liri rolled a copper over her knuckles idly, listening as Beraht made his usual threats to Rica. Much as she loathed the bastard, he was their only chance right now.

“I can’t keep gambling on you forever, precious. You’ve got a sweet look, something to light a man on fire—but you’ve gotta make it count.” Beraht took a long eyeful of Rica. Liri’s free hand brushed against her sword.

“Please, Beraht. I don’t want to do this in front of my sister—”

Beraht laughed. “Why not? She knows the slope of the land, don’t ya, girl?”

Liri slipped the copper into her pocket and began to sign. _“Didn’t I tell you the next time you spoke like that about my sister I’d shank you through your ribs?”_

Beraht glanced at Rica for an interpretation. “We owe you everything, Beraht. We won’t let you down.” 

Liri glared at her sister. _“That’s not what I said.”_

It was probably for the best that Rica censored her, but it irritated her nonetheless. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” said Beraht. “Before me, your sister was just another duster. Now check her out! Braids down to here, gold-capped teeth—she can recite elf-poetry and play the string-harp. Every man’s dream! All she’s gotta do is find a lord, squeeze out some kid who looks like him, and we’re all living the easy life in the Diamond Quarter.”

Rica looked up at Liri, a small amount of shame in her eyes. “Please don’t get involved. You know that never goes well.”

_“I don’t like him treating you like this,”_ said Liri. Like they really had any other choice.

Beraht glared in their direction. “You just keep your head down and say ‘aye’ to any job I decide is low enough for scum like you. In return, I put out coin so precious Rica can doll herself up and get a bellyful of some nobleman’s brat. Then, you both go free. And I get to join the family and be called, ‘mi’lord’ for the rest of the little prince’s life.”

Liri looked at the carta boss incredulously. There was no way this ended after that. Beraht would hold them for life, one way or another. _“So what are you doing here?”_

Rica passed on the question, and Beraht looked the both of them over again. “Checking on my investments. And right now, they don’t bear much gold. I’m giving you another week, precious. If you haven’t found a patron, you’re back to sweeping streets.”

“But… I have.” Rica’s eyes lit up. “I’ve met someone… that is, I didn’t want to promise, but he seemed interested.”

_“So get off her back and tell me my job for the day.”_

“Your buddy Leske’s waiting outside. He knows what I’ll need from you today. Don’t even think about bungling this job. Your whole family is on loose sand with me right now.” Beraht’s voice carried more threat than usual, which was actually impressive. “And I know you don’t have anywhere else to turn.” With that, Beraht left them alone in their little hovel.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

 _“You don’t have to hide anything from me, Rica.”_

“I’ve always tried, though. At least I’ve made sure you don’t have to buy your future with what’s between your legs anymore,” said Rica with a long sigh. “I should have told you. Beraht’s been warning me ever since two of his other girls found patrons at Lord Harrowmont’s reception. They’ve been getting gifts already. Lord Rousten gave Elsye a surface-silk gown and she’s not even pregnant. Beraht’s getting impatient.”

 _“Have you had that much competition attracting nobles?”_ More and more girls were working the Diamond Quarter with the hopes of bearing a noble son, it seemed. It was a strange feeling, watching the other casteless girls put on pearls while she put on armor.

“Well, there are enough of us now that they have a name for us. They call us noble-hunters.” Rica rolled her eyes. “It’s not like we’re stalking them for food!”

_“Besides, I hear deshyr taste awful, all gristle and fat.”_

Rica laughed, hiding her mouth behind her hand with cultured grace. All those etiquette classes were paying off, at least. “Besides, if they didn’t want what we were offering, believe me, there would be nobody doing it.”

 _“I don’t understand why the work I do for Beraht isn’t enough.”_ Liri shook her head as she signed.

“I know you’ve worked hard to keep him from throwing us out. I can only imagine the horrible things he’s made you do.”

Not so horrible, maybe. A couple heads bashed in here, and couple threats made there. A few drops of poison in a goblet and a knife or two in the right back. All in a day’s work, really. She was really better suited to the life of a thug than one trying to schmooze nobles anyhow.

“But… there are a lot of desperate dwarves in Orzammar. He could buy any one of them to run messages and knock skulls.”

 _“We wouldn’t even be in this mess if I could join the army. Or the Silent Sisters. I already have most of their requirements met, anyhow.”_ Liri chuckled in spite of herself, drawing a soft laugh from her sister.

Rice turned serious again soon enough. “Be that as it may, you know as well as I that the nobles would never allow it. It’s sheer folly, one more way the nobility protect their status. They say casteless soldiers are more danger to each other than to darkspawn… the it’s an insult to the smith to let us touch a fine-made weapon.Truly, they just don’t wish to insult the Warrior Caste by showing that given the same opportunities we could lead an army just as well.”

That much, Liri knew. She could list a dozen dusters off the top of her head who would make for excellent warriors or even generals, but instead they were resigned to life in Dust Town, if not begging, then thumping skulls for the carta. _“They would rather we all be killed than admit they’re wrong.”_

“I have little love for the nobles, but they know—more than we ever will—what the darkspawn have taken from our kind. Every noble I’ve met has had a brother or a nephew killed in the Deep Roads. Yet, they let their arrogance blind them to the fact that we could help defend the city against the darkspawn. They would even turn to the humans for aid before us, it seems. There’s talk floating around of an alliance against the darkspawn, even that the Grey Wardens have stepped up.”

If there was one good thing about her sister’s position, it was the information. Rica overheard all kinds of interesting things as she worked the Diamon Quarter. The job wore on her sister, even though she hid it well behind layers of cosmetics. 

_“Beraht asks too much of you.”_ Liri could see how her sister’s shoulders sagged whenever she didn’t think anyone was looking. It wasn’t as bad as when they were younger. At times Rica even seemed hopeful. But that weight was still there.

Rica fidgeted with the buttons on her sleeve. “You know the nobles are desperate for children. They can barely field enough soldiers to hold the walls against the darkspawn. If I could… give one of them a son, the whole house would celebrate. And we’d all be raised up to noble caste to join the family. It’s what Beraht’s betting on. That’s why he’s paid for my clothes, my voice lessons. He wants to share the reward.”

_“And you said there was a noble showing interest?”_

“Yes. That is, I hope. He certainly seems… charming. He treats me like a real lady, not just someone to tumble and forget.” Rica was actually smiling. Even if the job Beraht had her set to was sometimes… unpleasant, it was good that Rica could at least find a little joy in it.

 _“You gonna tell me who he is, or am I supposed to start guessing?”_ She needed to know—someone needed to do a background check, and Rica wasn’t the one. Who is he, who are his trading partners, does he beat his women behind closed doors, do his friends. All important things to know. 

“I-I don’t want to say… in case I’m wrong,” said Rica. Liri narrowed her eyes at her sister. Was Rica blushing? She was actually blushing. “It just seems too mad to think of one of the most important men in Orzammar with… someone like me.”

“You know the other options. Cleaning middens, begging, going to the surface… working the street corners again…” Rica shuddered. Unpleasant as it could be pursuing nobles or slitting throats, neither of them wanted to go back to selling a tumble for a single copper. They were worth more than that, at the very least. “No, unless you find a way to save us all from darkspawn and become a Paragon, we’re pretty much on Beraht’s leash for life.”

Liri barked a laugh. _“Someone like me could never actually become a Paragon.”_

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Gherlon the Blood-Risen was born casteless, you know, before he went to the surface. And he came back and won the throne!” Rica exclaimed. Her fancy education was paying off, at least. “Many Paragons have humble origins. All that matters is that the Assembly recognizes their achievements. And once they get that vote, they found their own house, and are as noble as if the ancestors themselves made it so.”

It would never happen. She wasn’t anything special, just another casteless doing her best to survive. The day she became Paragon would be the very same day nugs started to fly.

Still, Rica’s hope was a little contagious. Just a little. _“That would certainly surprise Mother.”_

“Oh, don’t pay attention to her. She’s just a bitter old drunk. She also said you’d never learn to walk, or stop dumping the bed. Make something of yourself just to spite her.”

_“Maybe I will.”_

“Maybe you will.” Rica smiled fondly. “But until then, we can only serve as Beraht demands, and he won’t like it if either of us is late.”

 _“You’re right. See ya later.”_ Liri gathered her gear, adding a couple more blades to her belt.

“Don’t get into too much trouble. I’ll see you tonight.” Rica turned to her trunk and began to pull out her expensive accessories.

Liri tried to exit the hovel without catching her mother’s attention, but alas, no such luck.

Her mother glared over at her in a haze as she passed, a bottle of moss-wine clutched in her hand. “Whozzat? Why are you bothering me? Rica?”

It was one of those days, apparently. Liri and Rica looked alike, sure, but when she was deep in the bottle her mother could never tell one from the other.

 _“It’s the guardsmen. You’re under arrest for drunkenness.”_ If drunkenness was an actual offense, all of Tapsters would be incarcerated.

Her mother stared at her. Even though Liri signed slowly, it took the drunken mess a moment to puzzle out the hand signals.

“Don’t sass me, you ungrateful brat! I made you and I can make another just like you.” She took another swig. Everything about the woman stank with alcohol.

 _“I’m the only reason you’re here and not dead in a gutter.”_ Too many times, she or Rica had had to pull their mother physically out of a ditch. They stopped trying to drag her out of her emotional ditch years ago.

“Then you shoulda left me there!” She spat, “What’ve I got that’s worth livin for?”

Not much, apparently. _“What about me? What about Rica?”_

“I know you both hate me…” she shifted from rage to weeping faster than a coin flip. “… I-I know what I done to ya, but… it was for your own good. The world’s a cruel place. You… you had to learn that.” And then it was back to rage just as fast. “You think you’d be where you are now if I’d let you hide from a few slaps? Everything you are, I made you!”

 _“Think that’s something to be proud of, do you?”_ A few slaps, indeed. How many times had she hid behind Rica when this woman went on a drunken rampage? Too many. How many years had she and Rica stood on the street corners, selling themselves for less than they were worth, just for what little money they made go straight into a bottle? Too many. Only now that they had a real chance at changing their fates did their mother start claiming she made any of it happen.

“I tried my best! They treat us like dust, tell us we’re cursed. How else are we supposed to live? We got nothin! There’s no way out. For any of us.” 

_“You’re wrong. I’m going to make something of my life.”_ Did she actually just say that? Wow. Rica really was rubbing off on her.

“Sure. That’s what they all say. You only got one coin to spend in this life, and it’s between your legs.”

Liri turned away to stop herself from decking the woman upside the head. She started towards the door.

“Hey, where’s she goin? Why’s she leaving?” Her mother slurred. “Don’t leave me!”

Liri turned back just in time to see the woman fall sideways out of her chair, only to be caught by Rica before hitting the stone. “Never mind, Mother. Why don’t you just lie down? That’s good.” Liri helped Rica move the semi-coherent drunk to the nearby cot. Almost impressively, a bottle of moss-wine still rested tightly in her grip.

_“I’m going now. Hopefully she’ll dry out by the time I get back.”_

Unlikely. But miracles happened every once in a while, even in Dust Town.

Leske was waiting for her in his usual place in the square.

“About sodding time. I was starting to think I’d have to bust in and get an eyeful of that spicy sister of yours, ga-row!”

She was so not in the mood for this today.

 _“Haven’t I told you not to talk about Rica that way?”_

Leske was unfazed. Apparently he missed the murder in her eyes. “You’re just jealous because you want the majesty of Leske for yourself, you shameless hussy. What do you say?”

 _“I say that you just like Rica because she can’t break you with one hand.”_ Liri cracked her knuckles as she finished, just to emphasize the point.

Leske cleared his throat and looked away quickly. “That does have its appeal. But much as I’d love to keep chatting, we’d better get down to business.”

_“And here I hoped our mission was for me to make fun of you.”_

“No such luck.” 

_“So what’s the job?”_

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

He learned a lot on the five-day walk to Orzammar. The most important things were how to pitch a tent, how to cook over a fire, and that the body belonging to Edmund Amell was not nearly as physically fit as his own actual body.

He supposed he would have to adjust soon. If he made it to the “main campain,” he was going to do an awful lot of walking around Ferelden.

If any of his traveling companions questions his lack of general know-how, they didn’t voice it. He supposed that it could easily be explained that he was in the Circle for so long he didn’t know anything about the outside world. It was a really convenient excuse.

Duncan spoke little during the journey, only occasionally making small talk, but mostly giving instructions or asking the occasional question. The other Wardens were more talkative, with each other and with him.

He found himself remembering with an uncomfortable start that none of the men he was traveling with would survive Ostagar. That made it somewhat more difficult to speak with them.

The others seemed to interpret his sudden solemn attitude as homesickness, even going so far to tease him about it. He didn’t see a need to correct them.

Two of the nights they camped on the road, he found himself in the Fade with Pride. Pride worked with him on his focus, on his ability to reach into his mana smoothly on command. Edmund told Pride about cell phones. Pride taught him his limits, how far he could push before he reached his breaking point, and what to do if that ever happened. Edmund told Pride about the Internet. They traded back in forth, and for now at least it seemed like this little dance would work.

Though the training in the Fade didn’t seem to affect him physically, it did leave him waking with a killer headache in the morning. What he wouldn’t do for some tylenol. 

Sam and Oliver were discussing the best way to kill an Ogre when Edmund realized they were nearing the gates to Orzammar. He quickened his steps to match Duncan’s at the head of the group.

“Will you be recruiting while we’re here, Duncan?”

“Should we find someone worthy, I don’t see why not,” said Duncan. “There is always room in the Wardens for those with the will and skill to face the darkspawn.”

Edmund drummed his fingers against his staff, which he’d used throughout the trip as a glorified walking stick, lost in thought. He hadn’t told Duncan. Didn’t know how to tell Duncan. Didn’t know if he should.

He didn’t even know when they would be arriving in Orzammar, time-line wise. The Commoner Origin was supposed to take place a week before the Noble Origin. They would probably only be able to recruit one or the other.

If he had to guess, they would be there for the Noble Origin. He recalled Duncan standing at the commission feast with other human wardens—there to scout the Deep Roads for some mysterious reason. Like they were apparently doing now.

“Well find some here. I’m sure of it.” 

The market around the cities entrance was bustling, surface dwarves selling wares from armor to artwork. The company of Wardens passed through the middle directly to the gates themselves. Edmund didn’t know how to put it any other way. They were… enormous. 

The guards recognized Duncan nearly on-sight and let them in almost without question.

Edmund felt like he was stepping into an entirely different world—which was becoming a common sensation, unfortunately. The game simply didn’t do the massive Hall of Heroes justice.

Stone dwarves loomed in a massive parade as they made their way to the city proper. Edmund could almost here Orzammar’s theme music playing in the back of his mind. 

The city was strangely dark—but if he remembered correctly dwarves had dark-vision, so the denizens of the city probably saw fine. As it was for the party of humans, the waterfalls and pools of lava cast an eerie glow on the entire city, enhancing the other-worldly effect.

His eyes began to adjust to the darkness as they were escorted through the city. Being that the shortest of them was still two feet taller than the dwarves around them, they caught a lot of attention from passers by.

He’d have thought he’d have gotten used to being watched from hanging around templars, but this was different. Awe and curiosity, not suspicion.

Their escort brought them to what he assumed was the Diamond Quarter. “This is the Grey Warden compound here in Orzammar. It is a small location, meant for those who stop here before going on to face their—” Sam stopped mid explanation and swore loudly, having caught an elbow in the ribs from Oliver. He glared at his companion before continuing. “before they scout the Deep Roads. Yeah.”

Edmund rolled his eyes. Before they went to face their Callings, yeah. That wasn’t something they told their recruits.

“We will be staying here while I take care of the matters in the city,” said Duncan, as they entered. “Take a few moments to refresh, and then we will meet with the King. Be on your best behavior, all of you.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Endrin spoke with them only briefly, busy with matters of state, but promised to cede his request to study in the Shaperate until such a time as he could be spared to address the Grey Warden concerns. That itself could make the trip worthwhile—he’d found mentions of an old Grey Warden outpost in the Korcari Wilds while in the Circle library, but the Shaperate was more likely to have specific information.

Otherwise, Endrin suggested Duncan take his Wardens to the Proving grounds, where a Glory Proving would be fought later that afternoon, declaring that such an event would be declared as a showing for the honor of the Grey Warden’s arrival. Some of their best would be competing in the fights today. 

Duncan eyed the dark-haired mage as they walked the streets of the Commons. Edmund carried himself with an impossible mix of confidence and uncertainty, and had an uncannily accurate intuition. Duncan felt he likely knew more than he let on. Provided he survived the Joining, Duncan hoped to get answers about some of the more… unexpected things he’d said.

For now, he lead his Wardens to the Proving ground. Perhaps one among the contestants would prove to be Grey Warden material.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Liri’s purse was heavier than it’d been in a long while. They’d eat well, for the next couple days at least. She glanced back at Leske as they walked through the Commons. He was trying too hard to look casual.

_“Don’t worry. Just follow my lead, Beraht won’t suspect a thing.”_

“I hope you’re right, salorka.”

Beraht and Jarvia stood by the counter when Liri and Leske entered the shop.

“… the king is old, his rule won’t hold much longer,” said Beraht.

“Prince Bhelen seems more sympathetic to our interests than Trian. I’m not certain where Prince Aothor stands. He’s been careful publicly, but he’s extremely popular—and that makes him a bit of a wild card,” said Jarvia.

“We’ll have to get more eyes on prince number two. But Bhelen has some tastes of his own that he knows I can provide—” Beraht glanced their way, realizing that they’d entered the shop. “We’ll finish this later. It’s about time you two showed up. What happened with Oskias?”

 _“We searched him and everything he had, didn’t find anything. He was clean,”_ she signed as Leske translated. There wasn’t any way for him to censor her either, since unlike Beraht, Jarvia understood hand speech. 

“He didn’t have anything? You expect me to believe that?” Beraht crossed his arms, glaring down at them.

“He said he was keeping it all topside,” Leske added.

“Jarvia, send a dig-troop topside. If Oskias has a hiding spot up there, I want us up to our elbows in it.” 

Jarvia nodded. “As you say.”

Beraht turned back to Liri. “And the matter of… punishment?”

_“Don’t worry. I killed him myself.”_

“That’s very interesting, seeing as how my cousin was at Tapsters this afternoon. And he says he saw something change hands between you and Oskias and then the duster sodding stood up and walked out on his own two feet! Does that sound like what I asked? Jarvia, what does that sound like to you?”

Jarvia sneered at them. “It sounds like some jumped-up face-brands thought they could take a bribe and let him walk free. That’s just not right.”

“The lady says it’s not right. You wouldn’t disagree with a lady, would you?”

Yeah, but if Jarvia was a lady, Liri was an elf. It wasn’t lost on her that both Beraht and Jarvia had their hands on their swords. _“I’m not stupid enough to kill Oskias in public.”_

“Right,” Leske continued, backing her up with confidence. “I mean, no one’s gonna say spit to you, Beraht, but we can’t move that free. We needed to get Oskias somewhere private. We took him to the lava sinks behind the mines. You won’t be seeing him again.”

Beraht’s hand lifted from his pommel to stroke his beard. “Hmm… I don’t like you making me look weak… but it’s smart to keep the Sword Caste’s from asking questions.” Beraht barked out a laugh, shaking her head. Jarvia just looked disappointed she wasn’t going to be shanking them. “That’s what I like about you two. Now, I got something else for you. Make some use of your… unique skills.”

Liri gave him an uncertain look. She had a lot of “unique skills.” He was going to have to be more specific.

_“Let me guess: we don’t really have a choice.”_

Beraht chuckled. “You’re catching on. There’s a Proving happening today—all the best fighters from the upper castes, last man standing—you know the sort of thing. They’re showing off for some Grey Wardens who are looking for candidates to drag off to a life of eternal glory.” Beraht began to pace as he spoke, a gleam of greed in his eyes. “Now, it’s not often we get every name fighter in Orzammar lined up like that, and I have certain acquaintances who… take an interest in this sort of thing.”

_“And you’re taking bets on the fights.”_

Beraht carried on without a look to them. “There’s a lot of coin to be made when people get the fever up. Favored fighter’s an officer named Mainar, veteran of four darkspawn campaigns. I also heard rumors that one of the prince’s was signed up—likely Aothor, he’s won five Provings previously and likes to test himself against the warriors—but so far there’s been no confirmation. Regardless, Everd is a long-shot. Just got back from a Deep Roads offensive. Some young buck who’s got all the ladies drooling. I’ve got a lot of money riding on him, mine and other peoples. I expect to see and eight-to-one payoff. Understand?” 

He painted a clear enough picture. She nodded. _“Aye, I do.”_

“Good. When the name Mainar comes up, I want you to slip this drug into the bastard’s water. It’ll slow his reflexes, just enough to take the edge off, not enough to show. But it wears off quickly, so don’t use it until just before the fight.”

_“Alright. We’ll go right now.”_

“You bet you will. Here’s your pass to get on the grounds. The Proving starts as soon as the clock strikes. Here’s your passes to get on the grounds. And when I say I have coin on this, I’m not talking about some pittance. Like the value of your life. If I don’t see Everd’s name on the winner’s sheet, you’d better make sure I never see you, or your sister, ever again.”

Very subtle. Nice, Beraht.

Leske followed her out of the shop and across the bridge. They had a Proving to fix.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Edmund stuck to Duncan’s side like glue as they entered the Proving Grounds. Maybe they would be recruiting the Commoner Origin, after all. If Brosca approached Duncan, he wanted to be there and see for himself.

Dwarves milled about around them as everyone waited for the fights to begin. Most made their way to the seating area, some stopped by the concessions stand to get a leg of roast nug. He was considering grabbing one himself when a redheaded dwarven woman approached them. The other dwarves avoided her like she carried the Blight. Probably because of the geometric brands spanning her forehead like a crown.

He’d bet gold this was Brosca. If he had any gold. Which he did not.

She shuffled in place, looking up at them with an equal mix of apprehension and curiosity. Duncan bowed to her in greeting. “Stone-met, and blessings on your house.” The lady dwarf just blinked, frowning. “That was the proper greeting for an outside the last time I visited Orzammar. Has it changed? Or is there a reason you’re looking me so strangely?”

_“In my part of Orzammar, we just say 'Hello'.”_

Edmund frowned. She was using sign-language. He… hadn’t expected that, honestly. 

If Duncan was as surprised as he was, he hid it better, and could also understand her hand-signals like he could. “We do the same in my part of Ferelden,” the man laughed, “Hello, then. I am Duncan. I’d say ‘of the Grey Wardens’ but I suspect you already know this. Pleased to meet you.”

 _“I am Edmund, of the same,”_ Edmund said, signing as he spoke. Damn. Now that he looked at her closer, she really looked like his sister, and the sign language made it even more uncanny. Given that she understood Duncan without him signing, Edmund gathered that she wasn’t deaf like his sister.

His sister. Melody. 

Damn. Now his heart hurt.

He pushed thoughts of his family away. He couldn’t afford to be homesick now.

“Are you a member of the Silent Sisters, perhaps? I have met others of your Order in the past.” That’s right. Utha. It made sense Duncan would know some sign-language. He made a mental note to add that to his record journal. 

Brosca shook her head. _“No. I’m just Liri. Of… of nobody.”_

Duncan put the pieces together. “Ah… ah, of course. That’s what the face-brand means, then. I remember that now.”

 _“Aye. And yes, you can have me arrested for harassing you, if you want.”_

Duncan laughed. “For saying hello? My friend, to a Grey Warden nothing short of a slavering darkspawn waking you in your bedroll counts as harassment.”

Edmund rolled his eyes. “You certainly know how to make a sales pitch, Commander.” 

“I only speak the truth.” Duncan shrugged. “And in truth, I am very glad to have met you, young lady. Whenever we come to Orzammar we always stay in the Diamond Quarter. It’s easy to forget how much of the city we miss. We Wardens are always looking for those who have the courage to spend their lives in battle against the darkspawn. It is rare we find those with both the skill and the will. The best Wardens are ruthless to their enemies, compassionate to their friends, and inspiring to their troops. It’s a lot to look for, but I hope to find it here.”

“And I think we just did,” Edmund said softly.

“In any event, we hope you find what you are looking for. Come, we should get to our seats.” Duncan bid her farewell and lead him through the halls.

“She’s Warden material, Duncan,” he told the man as they walked. Duncan cast him a curious look. 

“What makes you say?”

First of all, she was probably guaranteed to survive the Joining. Because plot armor. Did that apply to reality? Probably not. Whatever. “She works for Beraht, a local crime lord. Good at what she does. Anyways, you’ll see soon enough. The fights are about to start.”

“We’re scarce been in the city a day. How could you know this?”

“I use my listening ears. Come on.”

The stadium was packed with dwarves, all cheering loudly like it was the Super Bowl. Duncan took the seat of honor, while he and the other Wardens sat at his sides. The Proving Master stood at the edge of the balcony. When he spoke, his voice boomed over the crowd. He eyed the runes carved into the floor. They probably served to amplify sound.

The opening speech was grand and long. Most of it was honoring the ancestors, calling down their favor on the combatants, and praying for the Stone to comfort those who fell. There was a little thrown in there about honoring the Grey Wardens and the glory of the call, towards the end. 

The first combatants entered the arena. Officer Mainar, and “Everd.”

The two bowed to each other. If he hand’t been watching Liri as closely as he was, he would have missed it when she scooped a handful of dirt into her hand.

“Fight!” The Proving Master gave the signal.

Mainar rushed at Liri, who easily evaded the swing of his club and threw the handful of dust directly into his eyes. While he sputtered and flailed about, Liri struck the back of his head with the pommel of her blade, knocking him out cold.

“The winner is Everd!” The stadium went wild. “A truly memorable fight. The young cadet vanquishes the wily veteran.” 

Mainar was carried off the field, and “Everd” returned to the waiting rooms without a word.

The Proving was set up in a series of brackets, with only the victors advancing to the next round. A few more pairs of dwarves went at it. He recognized a few of the names.

He nearly fell out of his seat when the Proving Master announced the fourth pair of combatants. 

“The warrior Burbek Turin will do honorable battle against Prince Aothor Aeducan!”

If he thought the crowd had been loud before, it all but exploded. 

“Aeducan?” Edmund asked, looking to one of the nearby dwarves.

“Oh yes. The prince often competes in the Provings, and has since he was old enough to wield a blade. He enjoys spending time with the warriors and testing his mettle against theirs. Should the ancestors favor him today, he will become a six-time champion of the arena. He’s a crowd favorite, that’s for certain.”

Edmund studied the dwarven man in the pit. From here all he could make out was fine blond hair and a well groomed beard, and that the man wore heavy armor and carried a sword and shield.

If they stayed in Orzammar long enough, maybe they could get both dwarves.

The dwarves wished each other luck, and donned their helms and drew their blades. Prince Aothor’s opponent carried a great sword. The two circled each other around once, then twice. Aothor made the first move, raising his sword and charging in.

His opponent parried the blow and returned in kind. Aothor caught the blow with his shield and pushed back, causing the other dwarf to stumble, but not fall.

They kept this pattern going for a short while. “Liri takes her opponents out before they can get going. Aothor has the stamina to wear them down and outlast them.” Edmund half-said to Duncan.

Duncan looked at him, confused. “Liri?”

Edmund shook his head. “Everd.”

The match ended with the princes victory as Duncan pieced together his words and chuckled.

The next several bouts proceeded in this manner. Liri would let her opponents rush her, making them do the work in attacking her, before turning their own moves against them to put them down quickly. With Aothor it was more of a back-and-forth, a steady give and take in the blows. He mostly tuned out the battles where neither of them were fighting.

He checked the bracket. The way things were lining up…

The final fight was going to be Aothor Aeducan vs. “Everd.”

Oh shit.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Oh shit.

Sodding ancestors, why did this kinda thing have to happen to her?

Aothor Aeducan. A fucking _prince._

Maybe Beraht could have warned them that an actual royal would be taking part of the event, but no, that wasn’t important, apparently. 

What was the worst about this situation was that even if she _did_ put down the guy who would likely be the next ruler of Orzammar, she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about it. A fucking waste of bragging rights, right there.

Prince Aothor bowed to her. This couldn’t get anymore surreal.

“You’ve fought well today, Everd. Win or loose, your ancestors surely smile upon you this day.”

Considering that Everd was currently locked in a storage trunk, that was unlikely.

She shrugged, bowing to the noble and readying her weapons. Aeducan strapped on his helm and did likewise.

“The battle for the championship is here! Combatants, make your ancestors proud, and fight for glory!”

At the signal for the battle to begin, the prince started to close the distance towards her. 

Liri took her dagger and threw it, aimed true at his head. He raised his shield to guard his face. Which meant for at least a split second, he couldn’t see her. 

It was all she needed. 

She ran, circling around to get an opening at his flank. By the time his shield came down, her sword was already aimed at his back.

He spun on his heel and parried and stepped back, safely out of range. 

Liri scowled. She bent and picked up the dagger from the ground. Aothor swung at her while she was down. She easily rolled away from the blow and sprung to her feet a few paces away.

So far, the rest of Orzammar’s “best” wouldn’t have lasted an afternoon stroll through the alley’s of Dust Town. The princeling was the first one to put up a decent challenge. 

They went back and forth, parrying and striking until they nearly settled into a rhythm.

He was trying to draw this out. He wanted her to wear down, to get sloppy. 

She _was_ tiring. Three straight bouts with minimal rest between—her arms were starting to get stiff. Aeducan did this kind of thing regularly. He had the advantage here.

She needed to end this quickly. 

She sheathed her dagger, but readied the sword. With her now empty hand, she gestured him to come at her.

The crowd was jeering and screaming—she couldn’t tell what cries were directed at which fighter. As it was, Aothor shifted his stance, planting himself to the stone. 

She sighed—leave it to the noble to be uncooperative. She charged him. He easily knocked the sword to the side before cutting in with his blade. 

Perfect.

She caught his wrist with her free hand and twisted. The prince called out in surprise and dropped the sword. Liri kicked it away and went for her dagger.

She was just a fraction of a second too slow.

Aothor swung back with his shield, catching the underside of the helm. Sparks danced in her vision as she stumbled backwards, but she kept her feet under her.

Aothor was staring at her, eyes wide behind his helm. Liri blinked. Sound came back into full focus. The crowd was… furious. Slowly, she reached up to her head and felt hair. She looked down. Everd’s helm was lying on the stone at her feet.

Shit.

The Proving Master’s voice boomed over the space. “Who are you? How dare you disrupt this sacred—”

“That’s not Everd!” Shouted Mainar. An astounding observation, truly. “What imposter did I fight?”

“Casteless,” the quiet voice came from the man standing in the pit with her. Liri looked at the noble. He wasn’t angry. Just… really confused.

“Casteless!” Roared the Proving Master, “She insults the very nature of this Proving!” soldiers poured into the pit. “Guards, take this… filth, away!”

The prince turned and exited the stadium without a single word to her.

The guards encircled her, cutting off any avenue of escape.

Beraht was going to be pissed.

Beraht.

_Rica._

Her blood turned to ice. She dropped into a dead sprint, running for the doors.

She wasn’t going to make it. She knew that. But she had to try.

A guard grabbed her as she ran by and struck her in the back of the head. Her vision went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by ASL And The Fact That I Can't Speak It, or Dwarves Have Silent Sisters So It Seems Reasonable That Sign Language Would Be More Common Among Them Than Among Humans.
> 
> Leave Kudos if you liked it. Leave a comment to stop global warming.
> 
> Stay Lovely <3


	5. A Kingdom Beneath (Part 2)

“My lord—my lord Aeducan! Are you alright?” The Proving’s Master practically hovered over him. “This disgraces us all, my lord. Rest assured, that casteless filth will be publicly executed for desecrating the Provings and bearing arms against a prince of Orzammar.”

Aothor was surprised the guards had even arrested her and not simply cut her down where she stood. “There will be time enough for that sort of thing later. Have the guard-captain rally his men, the people are high-strung—there’s no need for a riot today. See to it that everyone returns to his home or place of work. Order will be maintained.”

“As you say.” The Proving Master all but ran from the room to carry out his command. 

Aothor sighed, pulling on the ends of his beard. He looked over at Gorim, who was trying very hard to not looked like a concerned mother, and failing.

“Are you certain you’re unharmed, my lord?”

“Only thing that’s truly damaged is my dignity, but that will recover with time.” Aothor stretched out his leg. He was also certain he’d pulled something during the fight—that woman was fast, he’d barely kept up. 

“Don’t worry. This Proving’s been disqualified, all record of it struck from the memories. Officially, today’s contests didn’t even happen,” said Gorim.

“She almost beat me, Gorim.” Aothor shook his head, “If the fight hadn’t halted the moment her helmet came off and we’d kept going at it, I’m not sure I could have won. Where does a brand learn to fight like that?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say carta. Those thugs have tried meddling with Provings in the past, but usually it doesn’t go farther than illegal gambling, or occasionally drugging a contestant. To actually enter a casteless into a match…”

“Either this wasn’t a part of their plan, or they’re sending a message.” Aothor gathered the last of his gear and joined his escort back to the Diamond Quarter. Gorim walked at his side, close enough that they could converse at a whisper without the others overhearing. “Regardless, this creates opportunity.”

“What are you scheming?” Gorim asked.

“Execution is a waste of her skills. If she can fight like that in a tournament where the intent is to disable or disarm, not kill, imagine what she could do if pointed into the Deep Roads?” Aothor mused. “No. There are four options at our disposal. The worst is execution. Second worst is exile, either into the deeps or to the surface. Then, a more preferable outcome is to sentence her to the Legion of the Dead.”

“And the best outcome?”

“The best outcome is one that makes a broader statement. Have you, per chance, heard there are Grey Wardens in the city?” Aothor smiled at his friend as he put it together.

Gorim chuckled. “You know, some believe you only care for competition and sport, just another muscle head bent on glory. You’re more manipulative than you let on.”

“Hush. I have a reputation to uphold.” Aothor knocked his friend’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got to deal with this.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

It wasn’t until later into the evening that they got back to the compound. Every noble in Orzammar, it seemed, felt they had to express their deep regret for the apparent insult at the Proving grounds that morning, and all assured him they would see the offending casteless punished severely. 

Duncan stood in the compound with his Wardens, who were all discussing the days events with great enthusiasm.

Save for the mage.

Duncan pulled the man aside. He needed answers. “How did you know Liri was wearing Everd’s armor? No one else seemed to suspect.”

The young man fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe. “I have a killer intuition,” he said, “Look, this is going to sound crazy, but just listen. I’m… I’m good with spirits. And sometimes, they’ll tell me things. What I have now are names. Five of them. Mahariel, Aeducan, Tabris, Cousland, and Brosca. Names of individuals who are nearly guaranteed to survive the Joining. And yeah, I know about that too. Anyways, that’s Liri Brosca. She’s on the list.”

Duncan stared at the mage. He… had not been expecting that. “Aeducan?” he asked after a moment of processing.

“The second son, specifically.”

He recognized several of those names. Tabris —Adaia. He recalled hearing that she’d had a daughter at some point who got into all kinds of mischief. Cousland… one of Bryce’s sons, perhaps? Maybe it would be worth it to make another stop back at Highever. 

Of course, this was all based of information from supposed spirits. “What else do you know?”

“More than I probably should. But I want to use what I know to help. That’s why I wanted to join you so badly,” Edmund confessed. “I don’t think I could stand knowing what I do and not use it to to help.”

A commendable attitude, at least. The steward of the compound entered the room, pulling his attention away. “Commander, a guest is here to see you.”

Duncan nodded to the dwarf. “Show them in.”

The dwarf hesitated. “Sir, it’s… it’s Prince Aothor. He’s here to see you, specifically, alone.”

Duncan frowned, glancing back at Edmund. “We will continue this later.”

A blond dwarf awaited him in the hall, a second dwarf faithfully by his side. Duncan bowed to the prince. “Prince Aothor. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. Stone-met, and blessings on your house.”

“And upon yours. You are the Grey Warden Commander, yes?”

“I am. You may call me Duncan. How may I assist you, your majesty?”

“I am glad to have finally meet you, though I certainly wish it could have been under less… interesting circumstances. You attended this afternoon’s Proving. You saw what occurred.” 

“That I did. It was certainly an event to remember.”

Aothor shook his head, stroking his beard absently. “To put it lightly. The Proving was already scheduled for today long before we got word of your arrival, but because of you the event doubled as a showing for the Grey Wardens to view potential recruits. But you know that already, of course. The match for today as already been completely disqualified and removed from the Memories. Even though the competition was declared a farce, the Wardens don’t have to leave without a recruit.”

Duncan raised a brow at the prince. “Here to volunteer?”

The dwarf laughed. “Ancestors, no! Don’t get me wrong, I hold your Order in high regard. But my place is here in the city. This is where I belong. Orzammar is my duty, and my heart.” Aothor sighed. “The casteless woman from today. She’s been placed in the cells, along with a suspected accomplice, who’s being interrogated as we speak. I’ve ensured there will be a trial. A public one, with Shapers presiding. Most of the high castes will call for blood. The best I might be able to arrange is Legion or exile.”

He could see where this was going. “I could remove her into my custody as a Grey Warden recruit. An interesting idea, your majesty.”

“Just think it over. You saw her fight today—I fought her first hand. Stone, if half our warriors could move like that, we’d have reclaimed Aeducan Thaig years ago and have a dozen more mines,” said Aothor, “Execution is a waste.”

The door to the hall opened and three dwarves wearing armor ran in. The red-headed dwarf shifted his position to stand between them and the prince. “Hold and declare, soldier,” he said.

“It’s alright Gorim, I asked these guards to bring me updates on the prisoners.” Aothor nodded to the guards to speak. 

“Um—well, you see sir, it’s… I swear it’s now our fault, we just—”

“On your time, guardsman.” Aothor’s voice and expression was calm, but his posture had gone rigid.

“Yes mi’lord. As you say, mi’lord. Um… the prisoners are gone.”

“What?” Exclaimed Gorim. “They escaped?”

“We’re not exactly sure,” one of the guards admitted, scratching his head in puzzlement. “The captain believes it’s even possible that they may have been… removed.”

“We suspected carta influence. This only confirms it,” Aothor muttered to Gorim. Duncan watched as the dwarf turned to the guards. It was like a flip switched and suddenly he was no longer looking just looking at a young dwarven man, but a true Prince of Orzammar. “Run back to your captain, men. Tell him a search must be organized at once. I and my second shall be along to assist in the endeavor. If we do not move quickly, we’ll be lucky to find our prisoners in pieces, if at all.”

“Yes sir!” The guards saluted without hesitation and turned, marching out of the compound. 

Aothor turned to Duncan with a polite nod. Duncan bowed to the prince as he turned to leave the compound. Aothor halted, then turned back, unstrapping a mace from his belt. “Here. I’d meant to present this to whoever won today’s championship, or at least advanced enough to face me in the finals. If that casteless woman does find her way into your ranks…”

“My lord, are you certain? That mace belonged to Foral Aeducan, your ancestor,” said Gorim, light protest in his voice. 

“My ancestor, and also a Grey Warden. It is only fitting it return to the Order, one way or another,” Aothor said evenly. “Until we meet again, Warden Commander.”

Duncan watched the prince and his second leave. 

When he exited the hall, he found all his wardens hanging out conspicuously close to the door. He needed to teach them how to eavesdrop properly.

“We’re going to help look, right?” asked Edmund, looking at him expectantly. Duncan turned the mace idly over in his hand. 

“Naturally.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Liri was used to waking up in the muck and the dirt. She wasn’t even unused to waking up behind bars. It was rather telling of the kind of life she’d led.

“Are you awake?” Leske hissed from another cell, “Can you hear me?”

_“Of course I can hear you. I’m dumb, not deaf.”_

“How hard did they sodding hit you, anyways? Did you have to put up such a fight?”

_“What happened after I went down?”_

Leske started pacing his cell like a caged animal. “As soon as everybody saw your face brand, the place went mad. Shut all the doors, examined everybody for family and caste. One of the guards recognized me and figured we must be working together. They burned three candles to the stump interrogating me about who put us up to this.” Liri eyed her friend. Bruises and small lacerations trailed up his arms. “I think they knew, ya know, about Beraht.”

Liri sighed. _“How much trouble are we in with the law for this stunt?”_

Leske started counting off the offenses on his fingers. “Public whipping. Loss of your left hand for stealing the armor. Loss of your right hand for befouling a smith’s work… then public flaying for impersonating a higher caste… and if all that doesn’t kill you, they’ll put you to death for polluting the Proving. I heard rumblings about someone calling for Legion or exile, but death and dismemberment is the more likely bet.”

 _“And how much trouble are we in with Beraht?”_ The law was one thing. But judging by the bloodstains on the walls, they weren’t dealing with the city guard anymore.

Leske let out a slow whistle. “Jarvia will probably pull our teeth out one by one and then have them made into a necklace, then probably chop out our tongues—sorry, I mean my tongue, then cut off our eyelids and break our kneecaps. Then I suspect Beraht will have us hung upside down by our small toes until all the blood rushes to our heads and our brains explode.” They were silent for a moment. “Yeah, I’d rather take my chances with the city law.”

Liri cracked her knuckles. _“Beraht said he’d go for Rica if we were caught. We need to move.”_

The dungeon door swung open. Jarvia eyed them in their cells with nothing short of delight. “Good. You’re awake. Beraht will be glad to hear that.”

 _“What do you want?”_ To break their fingers one by one and wear their flesh as a trophy, probably.

“You caused a lot of trouble today. Beraht lost a hundred sovereigns for Lord Vollney. The entire Proving was declared invalid, and the Assembly already called for an investigation. You can’t imagine the state Beraht was in when he told me to get you,” sneered Jarvia.

_“We didn’t have any other choice. Just let me explain what happened.”_

Jarvia waved a hand dismissively. “All Beraht needs to know is that you exposed him in front of not only the entire Warrior caste, but also the ruling house. Now, all the high castes are asking questions. And as long as you have tongues—or hands—to answer them, you’re a threat. Enjoy your last night together. Sorry we had to put you in separate cells, or I’d suggest you have a last tumble.” Jarvia laughed, throwing her parting words at them over her shoulder as she walked out the door. “Beraht will be by soon to make sure you maintain your silence.” 

Well. That was that, then.

Liri looked at the guard left behind. She’d seen him around before—loyal exclusively to Jarvia, but dumb as a pile of rocks. He also didn’t know hand speech, so talking with him would be a mite complicated.

Fortunately, she knew how to communicate with his type without any kind of words. 

The clothes she wore were little more than a burlap shift. Not only was it extremely ugly, but also uncomfortably itchy to boot.

She grabbed it and pulled it up and off her body.

Leske made a choking sound. She didn’t know what he was all excited about—it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. Probably just shocked that this was her go-to plan.

The guard turned around at Leske’s strangled sounds. “What’s—oh. Oh-ho. Oh,” he said, so very intelligently as he took in the fact that she was standing naked in the cell. “What’s… what’re you doing?” His feet carried him towards her cell without him seeming to even realize it.

Liri gave him an innocent look, fanning herself with her hand, trying to convey that she was simply overheated. She leaned on the bars, putting her features on obvious display. He was standing very, very close now. His breath was awful.

She reached out sharply, catching him by his shoulders and slamming his skull forcefully into the bars. He collapsed onto the floor.

Leske, no longer able to contain himself, started laughing. “You are one crazy duster—you know that, right?”

 _“Never underestimate the stupidity of lustful dwarven men,”_ she signed before lifting the keys off his body.

Leske frowned. “I feel a little called out.”

Liri shrugged. She tossed him the keys once she was out and started stripping the guard of his gear. As iconic as it would be to storm out in nothing but her name-day suit, it was a pinch impractical. He didn’t actually have much in the way of weaponry, only a small club and a dagger. Better than nothing.

By the time she’d finished adjusting her newly stolen armor, Leske had found a trunk in the corner with gear and was half-way through armoring up.

_“We’ll probably have to carve our way through most of this place. Ready for a fight?”_

“Let’s go.”

The first room of men they encountered attacked them nearly on-sight. Thankfully, there were only four of them.

“You know, given your reputation, Beraht probably should have left a lot more guards.”

_“What’s the matter, disappointed?”_

Leske shook his head as both of them picked up better weapons from the dead goons. Liri made sure to pocket their coppers. “No, just… I knew these guys.” Leske was a little pale in the face as he looked at the dead dwarves. Liri recognized a few of them, but she didn’t have any names to put to the faces. Leske shrugged. “Come on, time’s rusting.”

The next several encounters went the same way, and this time, Liri recognized more and more of the dwarves that leapt to attack them. A few of them she even tried to talk down with no avail.

She looked at the dwarves at her feet. Ezbektek. Rulen. Herles. 

Beraht expected them to escape. That’s why there was only one guard in the room with them, and about the dumbest the carta had to offer. He expected them to escape, and he was making them carve through every friend they’d ever made in his service. 

Liri looked at the end of the hall. Beyond the next door, she was sure she’d find the boss himself. And he would be ready for them. He was making them walk to their execution. 

Liri clenched her teeth. Not if she could help it.

She turned and motioned for Leske to follow her into the stockroom. She ran the odds in her head. Traps were unlikely—that was Jarvia’s style, not his. So, muscle. Likely upwards of ten heavily armed dusters waiting to ambush them before they could reach the exit. Yeah, that was definitely more his style.

The store room had a lot of things. Most were useless unless you knew what you were doing. She started digging through crates, trying to find the ingredients she needed. 

Leske hovered over her as she worked. “What are you doing?”

Liri glared at him. As she was currently busy crushing different ingredients between two rocks, she was unable to reply.

After a few short minutes she capped a flask and turned to go. Ordinarily she’d like to let the mixture settle for a day or two, but they were a bit pressed for time. As it was, it would give them just enough punch to get through this.

Liri stopped at the door the the large chamber and pressed her ear to the stone, listening. 

“I’m cutting the whore free. If that freak for a sister of her’s can’t stay in her place, I don’t need precious Rica, either.”

Liri breathed a sigh of relief. Rica was alive. 

“Rica? That the one you got all done up in lace? I been wanting to get my hands on that.”

“Heh. I know what you mean.”

Liri pushed the door open.

“She’s all yours if you want her, boys. And let me tell you… it tastes as good as it looks.”

Liri resisted the massive urge to rush forwards and stab Beraht in the face. She tapped Leske to keep him from doing the same. For this to work, they needed to be by the door. 

Beraht and eleven other dwarves waited for them in the room, all built like brontos and armed to the teeth. Unfortunately, her hunch had been right.

Beraht turned to them, sneering. “What in sod-all is that doing out of its cage?” He asked like he didn’t already know. “Come on boys, the little whore needs to learn her place.”

With one hand, Liri raised a rude gesture into the air. With the other, she began to shake the small vial. When the men pulled their blades she hurled it into their midst. 

She grabbed Leske and pulled him back into the hallway, closing the stone door as poison gas filled the room. The two of them leaned their weight against the stone to keep the men from pushing it open. The resistance from the other side was weak, at best. The men were gasping, coughing, some screaming.

Leske turned to her with wide eyes. “What did you do to them?”

 _“Soulrot bomb,”_ she signed. _“This one didn’t have time to settle, so it’ll only be effective for a couple minutes at best. But it’s enough to give us a chance.”_

The two of them waited until she was certain they wouldn’t be harmed by the gas before entering the room. A green haze still hung in the air, but it didn’t harm them any at this point. None of the thugs were dead, but they weren’t that far from it. All she and Leske really had to do was slit their throats as they walked by. Beraht was the most lucid of them, leaning on one knee and looking up at them in rage.

“When we’re done with you—”

He never got to finish the threat, as he choked on his own blood when Liri pulled her blade across his neck. He slumped to the stone, harmless.

Leske laughed. “Did you see him there, all ‘when we’re done with you,’ and then you just charged in and sodding slaughtered him! You have got to be the luckiest duster in all of Orzammar. Beraht’s dead and we’re standing here. Hail to the sodding king!”

Liri sheathed her weapons. _“As long as he never made it to Rica.”_

“Well, he sure was talking like she’s alive. But I won’t turn down the chance to take another peek. Hey, could you tell Rica I killed him? I mean, it doesn’t do you any good if she thinks you're the most virile warrior in all the Stone…”

Liri glared at him. Some things would never change. _“Are you sure you want to say that while I’m armed?”_

“Ah—ah, excellent point,” Leske shuffled nervously. “Now let’s go find a good place to hide.”

They didn’t even get the chance. No sooner had they pulled the door of the cover shop before they were surrounded by city guards.

“There they are! Seize the fugitives!” The guard captain ordered. “Drop your weapons and walk down slowly. We will use force if you resist.”

 _“I carved through the carta. I’ll carve through you, too.”_ Liri signed. It was probably not a very good idea to be threatening the guards. But at this point, she couldn’t be bothered to care.

The captain sputtered in rage. “You do not speak until the Shapers have judged you!”

Technically, she wasn’t speaking, so she didn’t see what he was all upset about. _“You should really be thanking me. I just did you guards a big favor.”_

The guard stopped paying attention to her halfway through her sentence. “Men, restrain them!” 

“One moment, good man.” Liri blinked. Maybe the lingering Soulrot gas had affected her a little after all. Had the Grey Warden been standing there this whole time? Humans were kind of hard to miss, after all. “Was it not suggested that the crime lord Beraht had arranged their convenient escape?”

Was he… trying to defend them? And was that Rica standing behind him? The fumes were definitely screwing with her brain. 

“Regardless, the penalty for impersonating a higher caste is death.”

 _“Actually it’s public flaying. But yeah, a side effect of that is usually death, so go on I guess.”_ For a guard, he didn’t know his own rules very well. Not exactly something that instills faith in one’s city guards.

The guard went red in the face. “If Beraht is as influential as you say, perhaps he also masterminded Everd’s impersonation.”

Not… exactly? But close enough, she supposed. The whole impersonation thing hadn’t been at all a part of the plan. She wasn’t sure if that helped or hurt her case. _“Last I saw of Beraht, he was suffering from a bad case of dead,”_ she signed, inclining her head back towards the door to make the implication clear.

The guard captain blinked up at her, taking a moment to fully comprehend what she’d said. “He’s dead? Beraht had many enemies, but also powerful allies. They—”

“Beraht would have butchered us if she hadn’t killed him first!” Leske said, crossing his arms.

“She has once again demonstrated her courage.” Duncan was smiling. Why was he smiling? “We Grey Wardens travel far and wide in search of those with the potential to join our ranks. It seems I have found one.”

Oh. _“You want… me. You want me to join the Grey Wardens? A casteless dwarf? Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”_ Weren’t the Grey Wardens like, legendary knights? What did they want with a duster like her?

He nodded. “Let me make my offer formal. I, Duncan of the Grey Wardens, extend the invitation for you to join our order.”

The guard captain turned angrily to the human. “This woman is wanted for crimes against Orzammar and against the Ancestors. You can’t do this!”

Duncan barely even glanced down at him, focused solely on Liri. “I can and I am. It would mean traveling to the surface lands and thus leaving your people, but it does offer you the chance to strike a blow against the darkspawn and the Blight.”

And the opportunity to, you know, not get arrested. 

This couldn’t be real. Nothing this… good, had ever happened to her in her life. Now without it coming back to bite her in the ass. _“What’s the trick?”_ There had to be a catch. There had to be.

“While it is no trick, it is a dangerous life. I can promise you no guarantee of safety. I can also give you nothing in return for these hazards. In joining me, you leave all you know behind.”

If danger dissuaded her, she wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. And if joining would save her life, it wasn’t even much of a debate.

She caught Rica’s eye through the crowd. Her sister nodded.

_“I guess you can count me as a Grey fucking Warden.”_

Duncan looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. “Then before these witnesses, I hereby recruit you into the Grey Wardens. Know that you are most welcome.”

“This… is highly irregular. The warrior families will be… most upset.” The guard captain sounded very much like he wanted to hit something.

Leske chuckled, nudging her arm. “Look at you, duster. A Warden! And to think I knew you when you were stealing bread!

“We must be off now, and quickly. If you have goodbyes to say, say them now,” said Duncan. The human turned a pace away, and the guards dispersed across the street, dispelling the crowd that had gathered to watch the situation.

“From Dust Town to the Grey Wardens… you don’t watch out, salroka, you’ll end up a Paragon. And then I’ll never hear the end of it.”

 _“Nugs will fly before the Assembly names someone like me a Paragon.”_ There was a lot she wanted to say to Leske. For all the shit they gave each other, he was the only solid friend she had in the city. _“I’ll miss you, Leske.”_

“Aw… that’s the problem with women. Too sentimental.”

Liri punched his shoulder. He cried out and winced, holding his arm. She hoped it bruised. _“Just remember that I can still break you with one hand.”_

“I'd be a fool to forget.” He chuckled. “I’ll miss you too. Now go on, get out of here.” Without another word, Leske turned and slipped into the alley behind the shop and disappeared into the depths of the city.

She wondered if she’d ever see him again.

Liri hadn’t even turned around before Rica all but tacked her with a hug. Liri gasped, unable to breathe. She rubbed her ribs after her sister finally released her, afraid something was broken.

Rica, busied herself with fixing Liri’s hair. “I can’t believe you’re leaving. And as a Grey Warden! When Ser Duncan said he wanted to recruit you, I nearly fell over. When I heard you were arrested… I rushed to the arena, but by then you were gone, and Ser Duncan and Prince Aothor were telling everyone they had to find you and were already coordinating the search parties.”

Liri blinked. _“Prince Aothor was involved?”_

“Oh yes. He was adamant that you be brought in alive and unharmed.”

That… didn’t really make sense. But it didn’t really matter, now. She was leaving. For good. _“Will it be safe for you, if I leave?”_

Rica was practically glowing as she nodded. “This has been a lucky day for us both. I spent the afternoon with my new patron. If everything works out, I may even be able to greet you as an equal when you return.”

When. Not if.

_“Truly? You won’t starve?”_

“Yes. For the first time, I think mother and I will be fine. He… he calls me his amber rose. Isn’t that sweet? He has a voice like a poet. He has already promised to move mother and I into better lodging, where he can find me more quickly when he wants me.”

_“And you’re sure you’ll be happy like this?”_

Rica placed a hand on Liri’s shoulder in reassurance. “I am. Truly, I could never make a life fighting darkspawn. But if I can bear a son who makes his house proud, that’s all I can ask.” Rica pulled her into another hug—this one didn’t crush her lungs. “Go. Tell Duncan you’re ready to be more than a whore’s little sister. You’ve always been too big for Dust Town. Maybe you’ll be the one to save the world.”

 _“Maybe I will.”_ Liri let go of Rica with monumental effort. _“I love you, Rica. Stay safe.”_

“I am glad you were able to speak once more with those that care for you. Are you ready to go?” Duncan asked. Liri nodded. There wasn’t much else to say. “Excellent. Before we brave the Deep Roads, I would like to make you a gift of this mace, since you have so few possessions of your own. It was once wielded by the Warden Foral Aeducan. I believe he was related to your king. I am certain you will continue his proud example.”

Liri turned the mace over in her hands. The craftsmanship was beyond anything she’d ever seen in her life. She smiled. If being a Grey Warden meant getting fun toys like this, then this was definitely the life for her.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Aothor was just about to bring his search team into Dust Town when a runner informed them that the casteless woman had been found—and immediately recruited into the Grey Wardens.

Aothor tried not to be irritated as his team returned to the Diamond Quarter. It was the outcome he’d wanted, after all. But just not the way he wanted it to happen. Ideally it would have been done formally in a trial before the Shapers, not in the middle of the street.

It still made a statement. Just one he had less control over.

Trian stood in the entry chamber of the palace, obviously waiting for them. Aothor sighed. It really was that sort of day. 

Aothor bowed, as did Gorim at his side. “Greetings, brother. You are looking well.” He looked upset, which was as close to well as Trian got.

“Where have you been all day?” Leave it to Trian to be direct.

“I competed in todays Proving, as I was scheduled to. There was a bit of a situation that arose, and I remained until everything was settled and in order.”

“You were meant to attend tonights dinner with the leaders of House Brodens and House Rousten. Your absence is an offense and brings shame upon our house. Have you no sense of duty, brother?”

“I am aware, my lord,” said Aothor, straightening his posture. “I simply prioritized the apprehension of a criminal who defiled one of the most sacred places in our city over canapés with Lady Brodens and Lord Rousten.”

“That is a job for the city guardsman. You are a prince, and your negligence to your duty has insulted our allies. Despite your upcoming commission as a commander, you have shown you would rather play soldier than attend to your place as a Prince of Orzammar.”

Aothor bit down on his tongue. Arguing with Trian was a bad idea. It was best to allow him to think he’d won, if for no other reason than it was the only thing that would shut him up. “As you say, my lord. Will that be all?”

“Get to bed. You will be attending tomorrow morning’s strategy meetings with Father and the Grey Wardens for the strike into the deep. Do not be late.” Trian left them without another word. 

Gorim let out a slow breath. “He seemed… tense.”

“When is he not?” Aothor mused as they walked down the hall. Once they were alone in his room with no ears to hear, he sighed. The statement had been made, but probably in the worst way possible. Time for damage control. “How much would you guess today has cost us?”

“Hard to say until the backlash hits. Houses Rousten and Brodens will be offended, obviously, but I imagine they’ll get over it quickly. I would advise making personal visits of apology, just in case.” Gorim stroked his beard thoughtfully. “The fact that you personally involved yourself with the search does get you points with the Warrior Caste Houses, however. They like to see you being involved with the men. Keeps them inspired. But…”

“… but the Noble Caste Houses will disapprove. Still, as long as it’s viewed as taking a personal interest in restoring order and apprehending a casteless criminal, I doubt even the most traditional families will raise any fuss.”

“Yeah, about that…” said Gorim. Aothor braced himself. “Duncan gave Foral Aeducan’s mace to the casteless woman when he recruited her. In public. And it’s already known you intended to present it to the victor or furthest advanced in today’s Proving. It won’t be hard for anyone to piece two and two together.”

Aothor shook his head, beginning to remove his gear. “Right. That’s going to ruffle some beards.” 

“To put it lightly. I knew passing it off was a risky move.”

“Alright… that can easily be explained. As there was no victor of the Proving, I simply returned the mace to it’s place with the Grey Wardens. What they did with it after is not my concern.” That wouldn’t be good enough, but it should serve to redirect the worst of the ire.

“There will still be some who make the connection. Or others who will think to invent one as an excuse,” said Gorim. 

Aothor sighed, placing his armor on its rack. “So basically we probably pissed off enough lords to expect at least three assassination attempts in the next week. How do you think they’ll go about it?”

Gorim considered for a moment before pulling a few coins from his purse. “Four sovereigns says two go for poison, one for blades.”

“Oh, you think they’ll be brave this time?” Aothor mused, matching the coin count. “My coin is on all three trying poison.”

“You’re on.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“These are my fellow Grey Wardens, Sam, Oliver, and Farrien.” Each of the human men nodded as Duncan said their names. “And you’ve already met Edmund Amell, a Grey Warden recruit like yourself.”

Liri observed the humans around her. Her neck was going to start hurting pretty quickly, craned back to look up at them like it was. Two of the Wardens seemed to be warriors, while one of them carried a bow. Her fellow recruit was dressed more like a noble than a soldier and carried a walking stick.

Wardens took all types, she supposed. She was proof enough of that.

“We will be accompanying a strike team into the Deep Roads in a few days. Until that time, it would be best if you did not leave the compound, for your own safety.”

She nodded. The compound itself was easily ten times bigger than her house. She practically felt like royalty just standing in there. 

Duncan nodded to Edmund. “Please show Liri to the armory. Both of you will need new equipment before we head into the Deep Roads.”

“Of course,” the man said, turning down the hall.

The armory wasn’t as grande as she’d been imagining, but what was there was obviously of fine make. Liri touched a set of plate mail with borderline reverence. Everything she’d worn before—and what she was currently wearing—was pieced together from scrap leather, mostly from old shoes.

She passed the plate and found a set of heavy leather armor. Luckily this was made for a dwarf, and would only need to be tightened in some places to fit her well. She lifted the set against her body. A loud crash came from the other side of the room followed by a loud string of curses and she turned to see Edmund on the floor, tangled in a set of light chainmail and cloth.

She moved to stand over him. Weird feeling, looking down at a human. _“What are you doing?”_

“I’m trying on armor, obviously,” he said, completely deadpan. Liri gave him a questioning look. “I’m a mage, ok? It’s not like we go wearing armor around the Circle on a daily basis. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Liri sighed and offered him a hand, and helped him to his feet. _“You’re a mage? Like, those people who talk to demons and shit lightning?”_

“I prefer fire to lightning, and usually try to keep the demons to a minimum, but yeah, basically,” he said, peeling the light armor off of himself. “Have you never met a mage before? I thought carta hired apostates sometimes.”

 _“Sometimes. I never worked with any, though. You surfacers tend to stick out around here, and my line of work usually relied on not being noticed.”_ She showed him how to adjust the straps and actually wear the armor properly. She eyed his “walking stick” leaning against the wall. She wondered when she’d actually get to see some magic in action. _“Have you ever seen darkspawn before?”_

“Never in person. Pictures though, in books. Nasty beasties,” Edmund said, trying the armor again. He struggled with it a bit, but managed not to fall over again. “I’ll probably have it easier than you, though. At least I can hurt them from a distance. You’ve got to get up-close and personal.”

Liri shrugged. _“That’s what bombs are for.”_

Edmund stilled. “You know how to make bombs?” He grinned. “Teach me.”

Liri chuckled. The mage was ok.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Making bombs with Liri was easily the most fun he’d had since arriving in Thedas. She had a sort of manic energy about her as she showed him to proper steps involved in making a pitch grenade. He proposed the idea that if they made the components flammable, in addition to slowing darkspawn down, he could also light them up. They set to work testing different types of grease and oils.

Over the course of the four days they spent in the compound, they managed to set the dinning room on fire three different times and cover the bathing room floors with a questionable green slime. The other Wardens were less than pleased.

Liri just seemed to be glad for something to do and someone to talk to. Of the Wardens, only he and Duncan understood hand-speech, and Duncan spent nearly all of his waking hours away from the compound researching at the Shaperate or discussing strategy with the nobles and warriors in the palace. 

He only saw Pride once while they were Orzammar. The demon lurked in the swirling grey nothingness of his dreams.

“Why can I only use fire?” he asked the spirit, holding a small flame in his hand. It burned bright, feeding off of the steady stream of mana he fed into it.

“You can use more than fire,” Pride answered. 

“Not reliably.”

The demon prowled around him. “Every mage has an affinity for something. Healing. Barriers. Some are even more naturally inclined towards blood magic.” he explained. “When a mage is young, they default to their inclination. You are as young a mage as any there ever was, in terms of your ability. But magic stretches as far as one’s imagination, and imagination stretches as far as one’s knowledge. You have plenty of both.”

Edmund fed more heat into the flame. It turned from orange to blue and grew smaller, but more intense. Like a rod of fire, or a welding tool. “So you’re saying that as long as I practice, I’ll be able to move beyond basic combustion.”

“Yes, and no.”

“Helpful.” The flame flickered at his frustration. For a moment he thought it would die, but instead it exploded. Because of course it did.

Pride laughed. It liked to see him struggling. “You are an invader. Living in flesh not yours. The magic at your command is, likewise, not yours, and thus will never truly obey you. You are a foot crammed into a shoe of the wrong size—you can walk, but if you attempt to run, you will stumble.”

“Great. I love being compared to a foot.”

“If I offend you so, perhaps you should have sought out a deal with Compassion, not Pride.”

Compassion. Cole.

Edmund shook the thought of the spirit boy away. “You mentioned blood magic, earlier. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t offered to teach that to me. I though that was part of the whole ‘I’m an evil demon who eats babies and possesses mages’ schtick.” 

Pride shrugged, continuing with his circular prowl. Edmund reminded himself that while their deal held, he was still being hunted. “Ordinarily. But I do not think you could perform blood magic.”

“Why not?”

“Do you want to?” The demon asked, looking down at him curiously.

Edmund considered. Maybe. It was supposed to be something of a shortcut, as far as magic was concerned. And there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with it, as long as he didn’t go killing people to fuel his magic. And it was powerful.

“Would I be able to?”

“No. For the same reason that I am not able to possess you. A soul is a fragile thing, mageling. Yours holds by a thread. Blood magic would, I think, sever the connection entirely.”

“You’re saying it would kill me?”

“I am uncertain,” Pride grinned, wicked teeth on full display, “Want to find out?”

Edmund shuddered. “Maybe some other time.” He sighed. They would be going into the Deep Roads by the week’s end. “Can we start working on barriers and shields? I need to be able to provide defense.”

“Ah, but I have done much tonight already. It’s your turn. And if you want to begin barriers tonight as well, I will require something extra.”

Pride stilled, and it was Edmunds turn to pace the circle around him. He considered the options before him. Pride found the technology from earth fascinating, but maybe it was time for a change of pace. Something… a little closer to the demon’s interests.

“Have you ever heard of Soldier’s Peak?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by The Grey Fucking Wardens, or Dwarven Politics Are Complex As Hell.
> 
> Leave Kudos if you liked it. Comment to raise my GPA.
> 
> Stay lovely <3


	6. A Kingdom Beneath (Part 3)

“Greetings, my lord. You are dressed and ready. Excellent.” Aothor turned to see his second leaning in the doorway. 

“Good morning. I believe you owe me four sovereigns,” said Aothor, nodding to his untouched breakfast tray. Gorim frowned and inspected the plate.

“In the grilled nug?” 

“No, though it was a bit undercooked. Shameful.”

Gorim prodded the eggs curiously. “Ah, smells just a little bit sour. It’s… deathroot? Spider venom?”

“Yes and yes. Quiet Death, if I’m not mistaken. They really weren’t playing around.”

“Suspects?”

“The last two were Gavorn and Rousten. This one, though… I’m not so sure,” said Aothor, accepting the coins from Gorim.

“I’ll arrange for a quiet investigation in the meantime. I couldn’t find the armor’s matching dagger, but I scrounged up a rather fancy longsword. Do you wish to wear your shield to the noble’s feast?”

“Of course,” said Aothor, strapping the shield to the back of his ceremonial armor. “Let them see me as a warrior.”

“If every other noble has a shield and three swords, you’ll feel awfully underdressed,” Gorim chuckled.

“You, my friend, are ridiculous.”

“One can’t take all this marching about and speech-making too seriously. Moving on to the business at hand… the king expects you to make an appearance at the feast, but there’s no rush. The noble family heads will spend hours boring your father with petitions and petty grievances.”

Aothor shook his head at his friend. “The art of ruling is hardly boring, Gorim.”

Gorim shrugged. “If you say so. Listening to a hundred lords complaining that their neighbors use the same underhanded tactics they themselves employ would tire on me after about… oh, a minute? ‘This lord had my brother killed,’ ‘This lord seduced my wife,’ ‘This lord did the exact thing I’d planned to do to him, but he did it first.’”

“You do have a point, unfortunately. Many among the nobility pretend they are the honorable man in a den of thieves and assassins when they’re truly just as corrupt as their neighbors.”

“An unfortunate truth. You, my lord, are at least an example to the rest, what they could aspire to be.”

“Excellent. Because there’s not enough pressure in my life. Thanks.”

“Just doing my duty.” Gorim laughed. “Anyways, as part of the celebrations, permits have been auctioned off to the Merchant Caste who wished to sell wares in the Diamond Quarter. Lord Harrowmont has also opened up the proving for young warriors to test their mettle before tomorrow’s battle. Perhaps we should go show them what single combat is all about. And by we, I mean you. Heh, I’ll practice my cheering.”

Probably for the best, Aothor decided. Gorim was an excellent second, but on his own in a fight he left himself with too many openings. Nearly got his skull cracked last year.

“I could do with some exercise, and I want a chance to earn my dignity back after last week. Let’s go have a look at this Proving,” said Aothor.

A woman approached them as they walked down the hall. “My Lord Bhelen?” 

Aothor turned to her. He looked like his brother, certainly, but very rarely did anyone confuse the two of them. He blinked at the sight of the woman, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. For a second he was back in the arena, facing down the casteless warrior. He blinked again. A casteless woman, but not the same one from last week, stood in the palace halls. She simply bore an uncanny resemblance to the woman he fought in the Proving.

Still, a casteless was roaming the palace. Trian would have an aneurysm if he found out.

The woman went deathly pale, realizing who she was speaking to. “Oh! I am sorry… I am so sorry, your Highness.” The casteless woman beat a hasty retreat down the hall, and into Bhelen’s room.

Aothor glanced at Gorim, who shook his head. “We should probably leave it be.”

Aothor chuckled. “Now what kind of older brother would I be if I didn’t snoop unnecessarily into my younger sibling’s affairs?”

Gorim groaned, but followed dutifully after him into Bhelen’s chambers. 

The casteless woman half-hid her face behind her hands. “I… I’m sorry. I thought you were Prince Bhelen coming down the hall. I… forgive me.”

She was certainly very pretty, Aothor noted. Eyes like serpentstone and ruby-red hair done up in braids and blemish-free skin—save for the obvious black brand on her cheek. It wasn’t hard to deduce what Bhelen had her here for, especially when the neckline of her gown plunged lower than the deeps themselves.

Her resemblance to the woman he’d fought last week was uncanny. He wondered idly if it was possible there was a relation between the two of them.

“No harm done, my lady.”

“I will show myself out, with your leave, my lord.”

Aothor held up his hands in what he hoped was a calming motion. “Don’t leave on my account, though you may go if you wish. I’ll not mention you to anyone.”

The two dwarven men left her in the room as they continued down the hall. 

“You’re not having her removed?” Gorim asked once they were out of earshot.

“Now why would I do that?” Aothor asked, composing his face into what he hoped was convincing innocence.

Gorim had known him too long to fall for it. “You’re hoping she hangs around so Trian finds out Bhelen’s been… inviting… a casteless dwarf into the palace,” Gorim said, shaking his head. “You, my prince, are more manipulative than you let on.”

“Hush. I have a reputation to uphold.”

The Diamond Quarter was a bustle with activity. Merchants called to passersby to observe their goods and nobles stood in debate at every corner.

One such debate was happening very loudly right in front of the palace doors.

Bruntin Vollney was barking down at another man, a scholar, if Aothor was right.

“I-I’m sure we can work this out reasonably… i-it’s in the records! There’s nothing I can do! Pleas Master Vollney, my work is accredited by the Shapers.”

“These books are lies written by the enemies of house Vollney,” Bruntin growled.

“I only write what I find in the records!” The scholar turned at Aothor’s approach, a plea in his eyes. “Lord Aeducan! You can vouch for my work, can’t you? Your father loved my ‘History of Aeducan: Paragon, King, Peacemaker!”

“I recall the book, yes. A well written study.”

Bruntin went red in the face. “This… worm, has written a book that slanders my house!”

“Your behavior slanders your house,” Aothor said evenly. “What does the book in question say?”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s all lies!”

“I asked you what the book said, Bruntin. I expect an answer when I ask a question.”

Bruntin gulped, shifting in place. “He says that Vollney—the Paragon who founded my house, known throughout the world as the greatest of men—was a fraud!”

“N-not precisely,” the scholar interjected. “When the Assembly names a Paragon, that man or woman is, by definition, everything one can aspire to be in the world. They form their own noble houses, and are revered as living ancestors. But Paragons start off as men.”

“Vollney was more than a man!”

“And why has this work upset Bruntin so badly?”

“Vollney became a Paragon by the narrowest margin in history—one vote. A vote mired in rumors of intimidation, intrigue, and outright bribery. The records of that vote are kept in the Shaperate and are a matter of fact.” The scholar glared at Bruntin. “Not liking history does not make it any less true.”

“You have an excellent point, scholar.”

“You’re taking his side? What if he published a book like this about your Paragon Aeducan?”

“Covering up the truth harms us all, Bruntin. Even if a lie would be more comfortable.”

Bruntin crossed his arms across his chest. The effect was rather childlike. “You would not say so if it was your house, but I will respect your wishes. For now. Excuse me, your highness.”

“That fool has no idea how weak his house is or how low he sits in it,” said Gorim after Bruntin’s retreat. “Shall I have him killed, my lord?”

Aothor looked after the way Bruntin had gone. He hated to waste. Waste of life, waste of skill. But Bruntin wasn’t putting either to good use. “What do you think, scholar?”

“Well… historically it has been prudent to eliminate a small threat before it becomes larger…”

He turned to his second. “Hear that, Gorim? Do the prudent thing.” After last week, now was not the time for statements. Now was the time to re-establish his hold.

Gorim nodded in understanding. “How do you want it done?”

Aothor considered for a moment. “Publicly. Make sure everyone knows why.”

“Understood.” Gorim turned away.

The scholar looked at him with something approaching admiration. “You’re shown yourself more daring and aggressive today than most believed of you. Some day, I hope to write of the great exploits you are sure to perform.”

“Word has been sent,” said Gorim, returning to his side. “He won’t live past the hour.”

The scholar bowed to him. “You’ve shown House Aeducan to be a friend to research, history, and the glory of our people.”

“Make sure you remember this when you write about me.”

“Of course. Heroism and pity for the small man have always been hallmarks of House Aeducan,” said the scholar. Somebody needed to tell that to Trian. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must try to make sense of these notes. Good day your Highness, and thank you.” He ran off to the Shaperate.

Aothor sighed. “If the poison didn’t already set the tone for the day, I’m certain that just did.” 

“Happy birthday,” Gorim chuckled. “Come on, the market awaits.”

The wares on display ranged from the fine works of local smiths to surfacer pastries imported all the way from the Orlesian empire. The merchants fawned over him whenever he neared a booth, overstating their honor for his attention and showing off their goods with pride.

His attention, however, was drawn to two casteless women standing slightly apart from the crowd. He approached them curiously, and they giggled to themselves as they noticed them.

“What have we here? Two handsome, strapping noble lords! You both look so grand,” said the blonde, fanning herself with her hand.

“And isn’t this the man of the hour? The king’s son?” said the brunette, looking him over in a way that made him feel akin to a roast nug.

He took them in. Casteless, but beautiful women dressed in fine silk and jewelry. Noble hunters, obviously. Like the girl in Bhelen’s room. The girls turned their focus to Gorim, who fidgeted noticeably under their attention.

“Who’s your friend, my lord? Another noble from the honored House Aeducan?”

“This is my loyal second,” Aothor said. They were both certainly very… attractive. And it was his birthday.

“But not from a noble house, girls. Ser Gorim, Warrior Caste.” 

The blonde sighed. “Oh, that’s too bad. You’re quite handsome.”

“Worry not. You’ve still got the attention of a handsome prince,” he said, winking suggestively. 

The brunette giggled. “That you are, my lord. Can I interest you in a little bedded diversion?”

“For you, my lady, I’m always interested in bedded diversion.” 

She giggled, and he saw something like hope fill her eyes. “Shall I come to your chambers after the ceremony, then—?”

The blonde crossed her arms indignantly. “I talked to him first! I want him.”

“He’s looking for a woman, Teli, not a little girl.” The brunette chided. “I’m Mardy. And I know how to give my lord a night he’ll remember.”

Aothor grinned. “I don’t saw why both isn’t an option.”

“Oh, my lord has his energy about him!” Mardy said, glancing at her fellow noble-hunter. “There will be no three-to-a-bed, if that’s what you’re thinking. We’ll both require… full experiences, all to ourselves. If you think you can manage us both, though…”

“Rest assured, my ladies. I’m more than up to the task,” he said, and the two broke into another fit of giggles.

“This should prove most interesting. We will wait for you together, my lord, and show you the proper way to celebrate a princely commission!”

“I await with bated breath. Until this evening.” Aothor kissed each woman on the hand before turning back down the road. 

Gorim gave him an amused look. “Well, at least I can rest easy knowing you’ll be well taken care of.”

Aothor shrugged, grinning at his friend. “What can I say? It’s my birthday, and I don’t see anything wrong with celebrating it in such a way. Besides, House Aeducan can always use more blades, and if it gets them out of Dust Town, then even better. A win all around, wouldn’t you say?”

“If you insist.”

“Aw, your just jealous because they didn’t want you because you’re Warrior Caste.” Aothor shoved Gorim’s shoulder

“Am not.” Gorim shoved him back.

“Are too.”

“Don’t you have a reputation to uphold or something?”

“Hush. Let me enjoy some of the perks of my station.” 

His good cheer lasted for about two whole minutes before shattering like broken glass. Trian was storming down the street in his direction, Bhelen ever in his shadow. Trian looked slightly more grumpy than usual, which was actually a mite impressive.

“Atrast vala, Aothor! How surprising to run into you out among the common folk,” said Bhelen. Aothor glanced around. The nobles and wealthy merchants around them barely seemed to classify as “the common folk” to him.

Trian crossed his arms. “Especially since duty requires that you attend our king father at the feast today. Have you so little respect for him to disregard his wishes on a day set aside for you?”

“Lord Harrowmont told me we wouldn’t be needed for hours at least—”

“Silence!” Trian barked, “If I want the opinion of my sibling’s second, I will ask for it.”

Gorim hung his head and took a step back from the conversation. “Yes, your Highness.” 

Aothor frowned. He and Gorim were more brothers than he and Trian were. “Please do not speak to Gorim like that,” said Aothor. If it were anyone else but Trian he was speaking to, he would be ordering it.

“I speak to lower houses and castes as they should be spoken to. Now do as I say.”

Aothor looked to his younger sibling, who was rubbing his forehead tiredly. “Bhelen, it seems ages since we’ve had the chance to talk. How are you doing today?” 

Bhelen gave him a small smile. “I’ve been dealing with him all afternoon. How do you think I’m doing?” 

Trian rounded on the youngest brother. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Bhelen shrugged innocently. “Nothing, Trian. I’ve been having a great time. That speech you gave the legless boy about hard work and making something of himself was fantastic…” 

“As heir to the throne, it is my duty to impart wisdom and judgement upon those who need it.” Trian said, completely missing the sarcasm in Bhelen’s voice. Aothor and Bhelen shared a knowing look. Stone, if Trian was more of an ass, he’d practically be a donkey. “Now then, Aothor, get to the feast!”

“I will go when I am ready,” Aothor said.

Trian scowled. “Stubborn, aren’t you? When I’m king, I will help you get over that. Come, Bhelen.”

Aothor offered Bhelen a sympathetic smile as he passed. Ancestors preserve him—if he was the one who had to follow Trian about all day, he wasn’t sure he would go a week without knocking the crown-prince’s skull in. Bhelen must have the patience of the Stone itself.

Gorim let out a slow breath. “That was fun. Nothing like being talked down to by the next king.”

“Hopefully becoming king will calm Trian.”

“We can only hope. Perhaps we should get going?”

He purchased some snacks for the two of them from one of the food vendors—the merchant nearly burst into tears when he’d done so—and they continued on their way. He caught sight of another weapons stand and gravitated towards it. 

“I am… so honored to have you visit my booth,” the merchant said. Aothor nodded absently. He’d heard those exact words a thousand times already today. “Your highness, I have a… proposition, but I dared not approach.”

Gorim looked at the man incredulously. “Yet you dare now?”

Aothor motioned for the man to continue. “If you have something to say, say it quickly.”

“Um, yes. Just so. Here is the thing. What I mean to say is…”

Aothor rubbed his forehead as the merchant stammered on. “Should I walk away and come back so you can try again?”

“No, no my lord. I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous.” The man took a deep breath and composed himself. “I had a dagger made. For you. A gift for your first command. I, uh, sent a messenger to deliver the dagger to you. Prince Trian had him thrown out of the palace. I don’t know what offense he caused, but I had him beaten severely.”

Aothor frowned. There were many things in that story he could choose to remark upon. He thought better of it, and simply asked to see the blade in question.

The man presented it, cradling the dagger like he was holding a newborn babe. Aothor turned it over in his hands. Gorim looked over his shoulder as he inspected it and let out a low whistle.

“That’s an amazing piece, merchant,” Gorim remarked. That was an understatement. Despite it’s ornamental appearance, it was easy and comfortable in his hand. The blade was strong, and when he tested it in his fingers he could tell it could keep a remarkable edge.

The merchant was glowing. “You do me much honor, ser. The blade has been crafted over a period of two years by masters of every art. I wished to bless your first command, and hope that someday, when he rules, he will wear it.”

Aothor faltered. 

“Trian is heir. He will rule when King Endrin returns to the Stone,” said Gorim.

The merchant nodded slowly. “If the Assembly wills it. Forgive me, ser, but whispers say the second child of Endrin will be chosen.”

“Whispers, indeed.” Gorim eyed the dagger again. “It’s a princely gift. If Trian recognizes it, though, it may send the wrong message,” said Gorim. He gave Aothor a considering look. “Or the right one, depending on your view.”

Aothor turned the blade over in his hands again, considering. He’d considered the possibility that he could be chosen instead. The Warrior Caste definitely favored him, if not most of the Nobles. But Trian was the named heir. For right now, that wasn’t his place. Still…

“I’ll take the dagger.”

“Thank you! You bring uncountable honor to me,” he said. Aothor accepted the matching sheath and attached it to his belt behind his longsword.

Gorim huffed as they turned away. “What he means is that you’ll bring uncountable gold to him if you wear that piece in public.”

“If he can manage to produce weapons of this quality, then I say he deserves it,” said Aothor. He looked down at the dagger, tapping the blade with his fingers again. “This is Stormheart, if I’m not mistaken. It should take well to enchantments. Shall we go see if there’s anyone about selling runes?”

He slipped the blade into it’s sheath and they proceeded to the end of the market, where he spotted a stall that looked promising, given that half the items on display were glowing.

Aothor hadn’t even said a greeting before the vendor began to stagger, pale in the face. “Prince Aothor! Here! In my booth? I am so…” He trailed off and collapsed on the ground, fainted.

Aothor peered over the edge of the booth at the unconscious man. It wasn’t everyday he got that particular sort of reaction.

Gorim laughed softly at his side. “You make quite the impression these days.” Gorim looked at him, something like sadness in his eyes. “Is it hard to be the king’s child, never able to just blend in?”

Aothor sighed, turning away from the booth. “I am what the Ancestors made me.”

Gorim nodded. “As are we all. Shall we move along?”

Aothor headed towards the gates to the Commons, where his escort to the Proving was waiting. After the way today was going, he really needed to hit something.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Liri paced the compound restlessly. Four days. It felt like so much longer than that, but that was all it had been. It was for her safety that Duncan insisted she stay, but it grated at her nerves to see the humans come and go as they pleased while she had to stay put. 

The mage didn’t leave the compound much. She couldn’t tell if it was simply because he didn’t  
want to or he was hanging around for her sake. It was entertaining, watching Edmund’s fumbling attempts at making grenades. More often than not the ingredients would start to smoke before he’d even bottled them. She wasn’t sure if that was a mage thing, or just him.

After several days working together the two of them had balanced the pitch grenade mixture so it was equally flammable as it was sticky, and they had a good stockpile to bring with them to the Deep Roads to actually test out on darkspawn.

Darkspawn. Tomorrow, she’d actually be going into the Deep Roads. 

Duncan and the three Wardens had already left for the day, attending some feast or something with the king. Edmund had chosen to stay behind, claiming he wanted to practice some magical techniques.

She found Edmund standing in the armory, his back to the door. Liri leaned in the entrance and watched him for a moment. The air around him seemed to fold, then shimmer, then became a solid sphere of light that encircled him. Curious, Liri picked a small pebble from the floor and tossed it at him.

It bounced off the light harmlessly.

But Edmund jolted, froze, and the barrier exploded into flames.

Edmund turned to her as the fire died out. “You broke my concentration.”

Liri shrugged. _“Sorry. What were you trying to do?”_

Edmund sighed, turning his staff over in his grip. “Practicing. I’m trying to hold a barrier. I can get it up, and it’s solid, but as soon as I loose focus…” he sighed, then made the hand signal for explosion to emphasize his point. “I’ll get it though. I don’t really have the choice to not.”

 _“I’ve been meaning to ask, but how do you know hand speech?”_ It wasn’t nearly as common on the surface as in Orzammar, from what she knew.

“I had—have, a younger sister. Melody. She lost her hearing when she was really young. So my whole family learned. And Duncan knows some because he knew a Silent Sister who joined the Grey Wardens.”

 _“You seem to know Duncan well.”_ She’d watched all the humans interacting together. Edmund only seemed to really speak to Duncan.

Edmund shrugged. “Not exactly. I’m going to try the barrier again, so stand back unless you want to lose your eyebrows.” Liri did as he asked. She liked her eyebrows. Edmund looked at her for a moment, considering. “Hey, do you want to throw things at me?”

Liri gave him a questioning look. He could be a little obnoxious sometimes, but she hand’t yet experienced the urge to hurl projectiles at him.

Edmund sighed fidgeting with his staff as he spoke. “No, I mean, like the whole point of these barriers is to stop arrows and blades, that kind of stuff. They’re not strong enough for that yet, but the only way to get there is to practice. Could you throw things at me?”

Liri grinned, nodded, and turned from the room. There were some exceptionally stale loaves of bread in the kitchen that would work perfectly.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“Congratulations. Frandlin Ivo is as fierce a competitor as I’ve ever seen. You’ve vanquished every warrior of note in today’s Proving. The ceremonial helm commissioned by your father for today’s winner is yours.”

The Proving Master held to helm out for him. Aothor shook his head. “I would like it given to Frandlin Ivo. He fought bravely today.”

“The people will remember your honor and generosity for all time.”

Aothor returned with his escort back to the Diamond Quarter. The mood of the people was vastly improved from last week. In fact, most everyone around him seemed content to pretend that last week’s events had not occurred at all.

The first thing he noticed when he walked into the throne room was the four humans. Aothor stilled as he surveyed their group, then let out a breath of relief. Duncan, thankfully, had thought to leave the casteless dwarf at the compound. Aothor could scarcely imagine the uproar that would occur if they had actually brought her with them.

“My Lord Aeducan, might I bother you for a moment?” Ronus Dace approached him before he was even fully through the door. 

Aothor turned to the deshyr. A man well respected by the rest of the Assembly, but a schemer like his fellows. 

“Many thanks for your willingness to hear me out, my lord. I wish to speak with you of a matter most urgent.”

Aothor nodded to the man. “I have a few moments to spare.” He could at least listen to what the man had to say.

“There is a vote coming before the Assembly next week, and a word from you could go a long way towards helping our cause.”

“And which cause would that be? They all come and go so quickly, I can barely keep up.”

Lord Dace chuckled. “Such is the nature of the Assembly. The lot concerns the status of the so-called Surface Caste. Lost to the Stone, air-touched, and so forth. Centuries ago, narrow-minded men declared that any dwarf who left to live on the surface forfeited his caste, and his house if noble. That he was, in essence, no longer a dwarf. I only seek to remedy an injustice, to retie the bonds of anyone who can trace himself to one of the noble houses, wherever he may live. Please my lord, agree to speak for this noble cause.”

Aothor considered the man. It was certainly a progressive view, and one that would bring new blood and more blades for Orzammar. But he couldn’t place the man’s interest in the topic. Lord Dace was known for being quite traditional. “Why so interested in this particular cause?”

“Those on the surface are out lifeline. They facilitate trade with the surface. They’re honorable, and… um…” the man sighed. “Let’s be honest. I don’t care a whit for those who have wandered from the Stone. My wife, however, is a gem of a different color. She has a cousin, a useless sort, but she is quite fond of him. He joined a speculative venture to the surface, hoping to make his fortune, and went bust. Now he wishes to come home, but he cannot, for he has no house and would be casteless. For my wife’s sake, I take up his cause. Will you lend me your voice?”

Ah. There it was. Aothor recalled hearing about that small scandal some months ago. He might even have bought in to Lord Dace’s ‘cause’ if he didn’t know for a fact that he and his wife despised each other. 

There was another angle here. He just couldn’t see it yet. “What is in this for me, should I speak on your behalf?”

Lord Dace smiled, stroking his beard. “I keep my ear to the stone, my prince. I hear many things, some of which could be of great help during your mission tomorrow. A little forewarning to help your forearming, if you know what I mean.”

An interesting offer. “I sympathize with your cause. Orzammar loses too many good men and women to the surface every year.”

“Thank you, my lord. When your father presents you to the noble houses, I will ask for your opinion on the matter. You merely need to say that you feel our surface brothers should be returned their noble rights. What could be more simple?” Lord Dace waved him off.

Aothor mingled, receiving congratulations and well-wishes from the crowd. He caught a scoff aimed at him and turned to see Lady Helmi eyeing him disapprovingly. 

He inclined his head to the noblewoman. “Lady Helmi. Your daughter fought well in the Proving today.”

Lady Helmi frowned, off guard from the praise to her daughter. “I… thank you, my lord. There are many among the Assembly who still disapprove of Adal’s participation. She would be honored to hear such praise from you.”

“And she is deserving of it. Is there something I can do for you, lady Helmi?” 

Lady Helmi frowned, stern demeanor returning. “Your mother would melt the stone if she saw who you just spoke with.”

“You disapprove of Lord Dace.” A statement, not a question. There had long been tensions between Helmi and Dace.

“Only in that he is attempting to play you false. If you become his puppet, your first command will be marked by every major house turning their back on you.” 

Well, that much was obvious. Perhaps Lady Helmi had the pieces he was missing. “I’m listening.”

“If you are to play in the games of the Assembly, make sure you know the motivations of the players. Last spring, a guild from the Merchant caste invested heavily in an expedition with a guild from the surface. Lord Dace backed the merchant guild, pouring a great deal of money into the venture. The expedition was a disaster.”

Aothor chuckled, stroking his beard. Patronizing as she could be, Lady Helmi was nothing if not observant. “So, this is his play to cover his losses. Of course.”

Lady Helmi nodded. “Clever child. Lord Dace lost a great deal of money and prestige. The surface guild has no way to repay the investment. But it does have several members who are descended from noble houses. Houses Helmi, Bemot… Aeducan.”

“And if the surface dwellers are restored to their houses… we would be forced to pay their kin debts. Thank you, Lady Helmi, for helping me see the bigger picture.”

“Of course, my lord. Let him think he has you. Smile and nod, and when he asks his question, tell him that the so-called surface caste are right where they belong.”

Ah. And there was her angle. “I’ll think on your words.”

“Good. Your houses reputation hangs in the balance.”

Lady Helmi turned into the crowed, and Aothor turned, glancing back at Lord Dace. He could not speak up for the surfacers rights—that would play into Dace’s hands. Neither could he denounce the surface—that would fall in with Helmi’s schemes. He could not afford to do either, yet he needed to do _something_

The solution was obvious.

“You return. Were my instructions unclear?” Lord Dace asked, turning to him as he approached.

Aothor crossed his arms, looming as to be imposing. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.”

Lord Dace scoffed. “And what would that do, besides get you cast into the Deep Roads or put down like a beast? Are you upset about something?”

“Your plan for the surfacers would have forced my house to pay surface debts. On your behalf. I may be just a little upset.”

Lord Dace glanced quickly to the floor. His bluff had been called. “I suppose it could. I mean, well, it’s the spirit of the law that’s important, right? Our poor disenfranchised surface brothers… bah! Well played, your Highness. Welcome to Assembly politics. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Dace moved towards the door. Aothor caught him firmly by the arm. “Not so fast,” he said.

Gorim spoke from over his shoulder. “You forget who you’re speaking to. This is the guest of honor and child of the first house of Orzammar.”

“For now. We shall see what the future holds. Trians grasp on the throne is in no way certain and much can happen before then. Now, let me be.” Dace tried to pull away, but Aothor tightened his grip. So, someone had designs on Trian? Not surprising, actually.

“Your schemes are an insult to House Aeducan. I cannot let this go unanswered.”

Gorim picked up on his intent right away and turned to the hall, pitching his voice to carry over the ambient conversation. “Lords, ladies! Lord Aothor Aeducan has challenged the honor of Lord Dace!”

The hall stilled as every dwarf turned towards them. Aothor could feel Dace trembling in his grip. 

From the throne at the head of the hall, Aothor heard his father chuckle. “What’s all this? My son is already baring his teeth?” 

Several lords began to holler and cheer. “Fantastic! I thought tonight would be all talk and drink!” 

Aothor grinned. There was nothing a deshyr loved more than a test of arms to prove honor. This would definitely re-establish his position. 

Lord Harrowmont eyed him with concern. “You realize that it is Lord Dace’s son Mandar, a formidable duelist, who will defend the honor of House Dace in the Proving?” 

Of course. He’d faced Mandar in the ring before. A talented fighter, if a bit over confident in his abilities. An honorable man. One good to have on your side.

“I will face any man to defend the honor of my house,” Aothor announced. 

“Very well. There is to be a Proving, then.” 

Cheers rose up across the hall as the mass of lords began to push to the doors to head to the Proving Arena. 

Guards escorted Aothor and Gorim ahead of the rest while others were dispatched to bring Mandar to the ring. 

Gorim nudged his side. “What are you playing at here?”

“Helmi has an angle here. Her house has always been traditional, especially in matters of caste. Dace is trying to suck our house dry of every coin. Both have their own motives, and I can’t play into either of them. The third option was to still call Dace out and settle the matter in combat.” Aothor explained.

“But that means killing Mandar and making an enemy out of Dace.”

Aothor gave him a look. “Who says I plan on killing Mandar?”

Gorim blinked. “But it’s an Honor Proving.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to kill him. Only get him to submit. Killing is just… the most popular and expected outcome.”

Gorim fit the pieces together and laughed. “You get into Helmi’s good books by stonewalling Dace’s schemes, and Dace owes you for sparing Mandar. Have I mentioned that you can be manipulative?”

“Hush. My reputation, Gorim.”

“Sod your reputation.”

It didn’t take long for the seats in the arena to fill up, and in short enough order, Aothor found himself standing in the pit across from Mandar Dace. Mandar was in full plate, expression stony as he met his gaze from across the ring.

The Proving Master gave his address to the crowd. Aothor gave a small bow to Mandar, who did likewise to him. “Let’s give them a show, eh Mandar?”

Mandar remained silent, tightening his grip on his maul.

“The Proving begins now!”

They paced forward at an equal speed, clashing in the center of the ring as Mandar brought his maul down in a heavy swing and Aothor pushed the blow aside with his shield. Mandar had significant reach with his two-handed weapon and was using it to his advantage, using long swings to keep Aothor from getting in close enough to land a hit. He was strong, too, and had the endurance to keep this up for as long as he needed. 

Aothor kept a consistent pace with him, pulling in close enough to tempt Mandar to attack him and pulling back just out of reach. If he could get the warrior to overextend his attack, it would give him the opening he needed. 

His chance came when Mandar tried to change his stance on his back swing and lost his perfect control over the heavy weapon, leaving his front exposed. Before he could recover, Aothor seized the opening and closed the gap between them, slamming Mandar in the face with his shield three times. As Mandar stumbled back Aothor followed up with a blow from his longsword, sinking the blade deep into Mandar’s shoulder. The warrior cried out, but the sound was cut short by Aothor pringing the pommel of the blade to strike at the man’s temple, knocking him out in a second.

The crowds erupted as Mandar crumpled to the ground. 

“This Proving is at an end. Mandar Dace has been found wanting by the ancestors and House Dace is guilty of dishonoring House Aeducan,” announced the Proving Master. 

Lord Dace buried his face in his hands. “This is my fault. My son has died defending my honor…” 

“Not quite,” said Aothor. He inspected Mandar. He was still breathing, and as long as he got immediate care, he would continue to do so. “Mandar Dace fought honorably for his House. I would not have Orzammar loose such a man today.” He waved the medics into the ring and directed them to Mandar before leaving the pit himself. 

Gorim and the rest of his personal guard met him outside the arena and escorted him back to the palace, fending off the nobles who attempted to shower him in congratulations and praise. 

Two Proving victories in one day—not bad, if he had to say so himself.

The party back in the palace was livelier in the aftermath of the bout. Lord Meino clapped him on the back and offered his own congratulations and thoughts on the fight.

“When he mistimed that back swing, I knew he was going down,” He said, pouring Aothor a full goblet of wine. 

Lord Bemot sighed, singing from his own cup. “Poor bastard. Still, couldn’t wish it on a nicer house. Merciful of you to let him live, my lord. Ronus won’t forget your generosity.”

“Well put! Our new commander taught House Dace a serious lesson—” 

All conversation died as King Endrin’s voice carried over the hall, commanding attention. “The hour is late. These deshyrs have waited patiently, as have the Grey Wardens.” The king turned to him, and Aothor instinctively straightened his posture under his father’s gaze. “Are you ready to be presented to the heads of the noble houses?”

“Of course, Father.”

“So dutiful…” Endrin smiled fondly, “Very well, let us begin. Lords, ladies. Grant me a moment of your time. We are here today so I may present to you my second eldest child. Blessed by the stone and born of the blood that ran in the veins of Paragon Aeducan. Who would pose a question to the prospective commander? Who seeks to know the prospect better?” 

Silence met his call. Aothor looked over the crowd. His bout with Mandar had been both a question and an answer in the eyes of the nobility. 

“No? Very well. The ritual is complete. I give you Orzammar’s next commander, Aothor Aeducan!” Cheers and applause rose up as the gathered lords toasted in his honor. “Tomorrow, Commander Aothor will lead part of a mission to strike a great blow to the darkspawn. Not only does this recover access to some of our most valuable mines, but it also allows our honored guests, the Grey Wardens, to strike far into the Deep Roads.”

Duncan bowed to the king. “Thank you, King Endrin. While the darkspawn seem to withdraw, it is only because they are massing on the surface. This could mean a Blight, and my men and I will discover the truth.”

And uncomfortable hush fell over the dwarves at Duncan’s words. Aothor watched as the crowd collectively shuddered and glanced towards his father for an indication of how to react. 

Endrin simply gave a graceful nod to the Warden Commander. “We are honored to have you with us, my friend. Now everyone, feast, drink, and celebrate. For the morning brings battle!” The king raised his cup and the lords cheered as one, all too happy to resume the party. Endrin put a hand on Aothor’s shoulder and pitched his voice so only he could hear. “As for you, my new commander, find your brother Trian and send him to me.”

Aothor nodded. “Of course, Father.”

“Walk well, Commander.”

The noise of the party faded away as Aothor took the halls to Trians chambers, Gorim ever at his heels. 

The crown prince gave him a contempt-laden once over as he entered the room. “So, you’re a commander now. In name, at least,” he huffed, “Shouldn’t you be attending our king father?”

“I noticed neither of you were at the feast,” Aothor remarked. 

“The world does not start and stop with your meager achievements. Not even tonight. Now, do you have some purpose in bothering us?”

Many things in this world were ever changing. Trian being an ass was not one of them. “Father wishes to speak with you.”

Trian visibly puffed up with pride. “Of course he does. We must discuss strategy before tomorrow’s battle. Bhelen, stay here and stroke the new commander’s conceit if you life, but then get to bed.”

Bhelen let out a long sigh as Trian left the room. “All day I’ve put up with that. He can really grate on the nerves.”

“You bear it well, at least,” Aothor gave his brother what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I don’t know if I could, especially since it’s sort of his right to be an ass.”

“Is it also his right to secure his own power at the expense of everyone around him?”

Aothor frowned. Bhelen wasn’t even joking, he was saying something serious. “Is this something I want to hear?”

“Probably not, but you need to all the same,” Bhelen said, dropping his voice low and quiet even though the three of them were completely alone. “Trian has begun to move against you. I never thought his much-proclaimed honor would allow him to act on his jealousy. Aothor, Trian is going to kill you.”

Aothor noticed Gorim shift at his side, tensing at a possible threat. “How do you know about this?”

“I overheard him giving orders to some of his men, and I was shocked. Then it began to make sense. Trian’s decided you’re a threat to his taking the throne. Maybe he’s even right.”

“Don’t you start with that, too,” groaned Aothor.

“He fears what you are becoming, in the eyes of the people and the Assembly. Trian’s the named heir, but only the Assembly can proclaim a king. It would be unusual for the Assembly to ignore the king’s choice, but it does happen.”

“The founder of House Bemot became a Paragon and king in one move from the Assembly, and he was a commoner,” added Gorim. Aothor glared at his second. That didn’t help.

“That was an extraordinary case. But at least a half-dozen times, the Assembly named a lesser family member—or even someone from another house—as king. Usually it’s the popular younger brother of an undesirable prince.”

“So you believe Trian thinks the Assembly would prefer me?” So far none of this confirmed anything. Even Bhelen overhearing orders could be a misunderstanding of some kind.

“Look at it from his perspective. You’re more personable than he’s ever been. You defeated the heir to House Dace, one of the most powerful houses in Orzammar, because his father dared to challenge your houses honor. You’ve won several Provings and have high regard among most of the Warrior Caste houses. If you win glory against the darkspawn tomorrow, it will only strengthen the case for you as the next king. Trian fears Father will replace him on the spot. If not, the Assembly will surely turn against him when Father dies. And you know his pride won’t allow him to simply stand aside.”

All valid points, certainly. But Bhelen was giving him ifs and could-bes. That wouldn’t be enough to justify turning against Trian. Aothor gave his younger brother a considering eye.

“And what’s your angle in all this?”

Bhelen chuckled. “It seems Trian has shown that brothers can’t always be trusted. I am next in line. If Trian succeeds in his plot against you, how long do you think I’ll live?”

Aothor glanced at his second. “What do you think of all this?”

“Permission to speak freely?” 

“Always.” 

“Trian would be a terrible king, but no one wants to say it. He has just enough backing in the Assembly to make it ugly when your father dies, but not enough to become king,” said Gorim, “Killing him now makes your house stronger now and saves a great deal of bloodshed later.

Aothor scowled. Gorim had a point. Bhelen had several points. Some of them were on his head. Regardless, he couldn’t do anything about it. Not yet.

“For now we’ll wait. See what Trian chooses to do.”

Bhelen sighed. “Very well. I’ll keep my eyes open,” he said turning for the door. “I don’t want to lose the brother I actually like.”

“I appreciate your concern, and the warning.”

“I’m taking your place as Father’s second, so I’ll be at hand tomorrow. For now, we should get some sleep.”

Gorim turned to him once Bhelen was gone from the room. “What do you think?”

“Trian’s not a schemer. He’s stubborn as the Stone, but just as dense. If he’s plotting something it won’t be subtle. Our best bet is to keep a warry eye on him and wait for him to make a mistake.” Aothor pulled at his beard in irritation. He wasn’t going to act against Trian, not without any other options. At the bottom of the line they were still brothers, and if you couldn’t trust family, who could you trust? Besides, he didn’t even know if he would want to be king anyways. The throne had never been a realistic consideration before.

“Let’s go. You don’t want to keep those lovely ladies waiting.” 

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The sensation of darkspawn crawling at the edges of his senses, however distant they were, set Duncan and his fellow wardens on edge. What was worrying was not the number that they felt, but rather the number that they _didn’t_ sense. This far into the Deep Roads there should be more, and the absence did not bode well. 

Lord Harrowmont gave his address to the assembled troops. “Trian and his men will clear the way for the Grey Wardens to descend into the easternmost caverns. Those are the caverns still infested with the worst of the darkspawn. We cannot risk our own troops in there.”

“Understood, Lord Harrowmont. We can sense the darkspawn and avoid them once the way is open,” Duncan said. 

King Endrin gave the Warden party a salute as he sent them off. “May the Paragons favor you, and the Stone catch you if you fall. Come, men, glory awaits!” 

As the squads divided onto their respective routes, Duncan fell in step with their dwarven recruit. “You must be extra cautious when engaging darkspawn in melee combat,” he said, “Their blood is toxic. If any of it gets into your system, you will be tainted by the blight.” Though the Joining would cure that taint in a sense, it would be several weeks until the ritual would be performed in Ostagar, and the corruption was painful and could take a life in as little as a few days.

_“Aye, I hear you. I’ve heard all kinds of nasty things about the ‘spawn. Gotta say that I’m not exactly eager to see one up close and personal."_

Duncan chuckled. “They are hardly pleasant creatures, I’ll admit that. But this is the life of a Grey Warden; I did warn you that this was no life of comfort.” 

_“Neither was the one I came from,”_ she signed, shrugging her shoulders absently. _“I haven’t seen much of you since you recruited me. Deshyrs been keeping you busy?”_

“Some, though I spent most of my hours in research. When I was not discussing strike tactics with the king, I was researching in the Shaperate. While I was in the Circle library, I found mention of an old Grey Warden outpost built during the Exalted Age, not far from the war camps at Ostagar. I found more detailed maps and information in the Shaperate highlighting several things that may be of use to us,” said Duncan. “But that is a matter for another time. For now, we should focus on the mission at hand. I trust you made use of the week to prepare?”

Liri looked up at him, eyes alight as she adjusted the large pack strapped to her back. _“Prepped and ready. Me an’ magic boy whipped up a whole bag of tricks to throw at the baddies. Can’t wait to try them out.”_

Duncan glanced back at the mage, who walked at the very back of the Warden squad. He had a thousand-yard stare on, eyes far away as they walked. Duncan shared a glance with Liri—she noticed it as well.

“Are you nervous?” Duncan asked Edmund. Edmund snapped back into focus, blinking at the two of them absently.

“Yeah. Plenty nervous. And…” Edmund trailed off, holding out a hand with his palm up. “Something feels weird down here. Like the Fade is farther away.” His hand sparked and sputtered for a moment before a small flame like a candle lit in his palm.

Duncan frowned. “Will this affect your ability to cast?”

“I don’t think so. I think I felt it since we’ve been in Orzammar, but it’s more pronounced down here. I’ll adjust in a moment, but it feels… weird.” Edmund clenched his hand into a fist and the small flame puffed and died.

 _“As long as you’re roasting the baddies and not us.”_ Liri shrugged. 

The other Wardens all drew their weapons. Duncan’s hands fell to his blades without a single thought.

“Prepare yourselves—darkspawn are approaching.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Aothor prodded a genlock corpse, turning the deceased creature onto it’s side and exposing fresh stab wounds. 

The scout huffed, doing a similar check on a hurlock. “Looks like someone beat us here. And these are still fresh—whoever did this is likely still here.”

Aothor frowned. “They would need to have an Aeducan signet ring to get in.”

“It could have been stolen, recently or generations back,” suggested Frandlin. 

“Or an ambitious cousin out for his own glory.”

Aothor pulled on the end of his beard. This was supposed to be a simple task. Get in, get the shield, get out. Why did everything have to get so complicated? And worst of all, he couldn’t get Bhelen’s warnings about Trian out of his head. “We’ll see soon enough.”

“Understood. “Let’s move, men.” 

Now in addition to being on high alert for darkspawn and deepstalkers, they also had a third party involved with unknown intent. But he was probably safe in assuming that they were no more friendly than the genlocks. 

They were approaching the location now, his Stone sense indicating that the tight tunnel opened up to a larger cavern ahead. Rounding the corner, he saw that it wasn’t empty, either.

A company of unfamiliar armed dwarves awaited them. The one who was obviously the leader of said group chucked at their approach. “So glad you could finally join us. We feared you’d gotten eaten by darkspawn. Turns out the shield isn’t as easy to retrieve as I was lead to believe. I bet you know where it is, though. So maybe you tell me where it is, and I won’t mutilate your body so badly that your father doesn’t recognize you.”

“Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“I’m your better, that’s who. And as to how I got in, that’s a question you’ll have to ask the Stone after I butcher you. Now, where’s the shield?”

Aothor shared a glance with Gorim. Mercenaries, likely. Paid a lot of gold by someone powerful to kill them and swipe the shield. But who provided the gold? Aothor surveyed the men before them—fifteen men, well armored and held themselves with training. Only a few houses had the kind of spare gold to doll out on an excessive group like this. One of them was Aeducan. Bhelen’s warnings grew louder in his subconscious.

“You’re an idiot, and now you’re going to die,” said Aothor. The scout, he noticed, had been using the interaction as an opportunity to slip along the edges of the cavern… towards a ballista positioned on the far wall. 

“Just kill em, boys. We’ll find the shield on our own.”

Aothor and Gorim charged forwards in a practiced motion, shields raised and weapons ready. Fandlin followed at just a pace behind, going wide to take out an archer aiming their way. The mercenary leader and three others ganged up on the prince and his second. For all their bluster and fancy armor, their teamwork and coordination wasn’t even that good. They didn’t check each other’s blind spots, bumped into each other with mistimed motions and poor synergy. Aothor and Gorim stood back to back, fending off the men who encircled them. 

It didn’t take the scout long to take down the mercenaries manning the ballista and turn it against the enemies forces. One by one they fell, with the scout and Frandlin taking out the archers and the mercenaries own poor teamwork doing them in before Aothor and Gorim’s blades. 

Aothor surveyed the aftermath of the encounter. He and Gorim had only suffered superficial injuries, Frandlin’s shoulder had been grazed by and arrow, and the scout was untouched. Not bad, overall. 

“Search their bodies. If there’s any evidence about who set this up, I want to know about it.”

“Right away, sir.”

They set to work, rummaging through pouches and satchels. Aothor found a familiar ring of silver among the leader’s possessions. 

“Is that an Aeducan signet ring? I guess that explains how they got here,” said Gorim. 

“Could be Trian’s,” said Aothor, softly so as to not be heard by the others. He hated the words even as he spoke them. 

“Trian’s? That means…”

“I don’t know. But I don’t like what this could be.” Trian wasn’t a schemer. This didn’t fit with what he knew of his sibling. But all the evidence was lining up.

“I would be a major victory to get the shield first. But he showed his hand and failed. You said that if he was planning something he’d blunder. This is it. And the first way we can hurt him is to find the shield for ourselves.”

“Sod it.” Aothor turned and kicked a loose stone, sending it flying into the shadows of the cavern. “Alright, form up boys!” he called to the others, “Let’s get this over with.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

He thought he was mentally prepared for darkspawn. He thought he knew what they looked like, he thought he knew what they sounded like. He thought he was prepared.

He was not, in fact, prepared. 

Outside of their humanoid shape, there was nothing recognizable about them. Their skin looked like some bizarre mix of leather and scales. They didn’t have any lips, so there was nothing to hide the horror that was the mouth full of bladed teeth. Worst was their eyes. Milky white and void of anything, empty and unblinking. 

And the smell. There were no words for the smell. He was grateful he didn’t have to get close to one to kill one, they stank badly enough from a distance. Poor Liri tossed her lunch immediately following their first encounter with a pack of genlocks. He felt particularly guilty—darkspawn smelled bad on their own, but set on fire? That was a whole new level of nasty.

For his part, he focused on defensive magic. He didn’t yet trust himself to not set his friends on fire. That didn’t mean that his barriers still didn’t occasionally combust—because they did—but the explosions they created were actually pretty effective against the darkspawn. He could even pretend to the others that it was intentional. 

Casting still felt strange. Before, it was like swimming. Now, it was still like swimming, but you were going against the current instead of with it. It could have something to do with the way the dwarves don’t dream and they came from the Stone. Maybe the Stone was a natural magic suppressant.

Between the encounters with darkspawn was an inordinate amount of walking in silence. Having Liri in the party was particularly helpful, as her Stone Sense gave her a mental layout of the immediate area. That, combined with their maps and the Warden’s ability to sense darkspawn, they made pretty good time and were able to avoid the larger groups of darkspawn. 

One thing bothered him, however. He didn’t even know where they were supposed to be going. Edmund pulled one of the Wardens—Sam, he thought—to the side while the group took a short rest. 

“Is there any chance you can tell me what exactly we’re doing down here? I get that we’re scouting, but for what?”

“Evidence of a Blight,” Sam answered evenly, adjusting his bracers. 

Edmund gave him a flat look. The Wardens would already know it was a real Blight. They would be hearing the Archdemon. “And that evidence would be…?” 

Sam sighed. “Largely it comes down to darkspawn activity. They’ve already pulled back in bulk from the gates of Orzammar and have been appearing in larger numbers on the surface, but that’s not enough to convince the likes of King Cailan or King Endrin. And we need both to agree that it’s a Blight before we can even open negotiations for Orzammar’s military support.”

“Isn’t Orzammar obliged to help in times of Blight?”

Sam shrugged. “Supposedly, but there’s nothing to enforce that. Duncan thinks he’s found out about some old treaties lost in the Wilds that could compel certain groups to aid us, but it sounds like a longshot to me.”

So, that’s why there weren’t any other forces at Ostagar. The treaties hadn’t been reclaimed yet, so there was nothing to compel the dwarves or mages for aid.

“Alright, makes sense, I guess. But what other evidence do we need?”

“One would be breeding grounds and how active they are. If it’s a Blight, the darkspawn are going to try and inflate their numbers as much as possible,” said Sam. Edmund tried very, very hard not to think about how disgusting a broodmother would be in real life. “Another thing to check are deep roads exits and if they have darkspawn encampments, and also see if there are active darkspawn forges in the area. If we can find enough to verify any of this, we can start talking about alliances.”

“How long do you think it will take to find all that evidence?”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll be seeing sunlight again in a week’s time.”

Edmund sighed. One week of tunnels. If it was already this bad, he didn’t know how he was going to survive the Deep Roads quest later in the game.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Aothor knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into the cavern. The ring of dead dwarves in the center were hardly subtle, after all.

Aothor took one step, then two, and before he knew it he was running. He skidded to a halt standing over the body of his older brother.

Gorim, as always, was just a pace behind him. “By the Stone, it’s Trian!” Aothor knelt by Trian’s corpse. 

“It must have been a darkspawn attack!” Frandlin cried out, turning in place in an effort to see if there were any laying in ambush. 

The scout shook his head. “This doesn’t look like darkspawn,” He said, examining one of Trian’s men. “No bites, no scratches, no mutilation…” 

Aothor stared into Trian’s vacant eyes. One by one, pieces began to fall into place. He barked out a laugh, but it was hollow of any emotion. He held his head with his hand, realizing the corner he was in. “Bhelen outplayed me. He played his game and I just didn’t see it.”

Gorim gave him a confused look. “What?” 

“Someone’s coming!” the scout called. 

Aothor looked up from his place at Trian’s side as Lord Harrowmont, his father, and a host of other dwarves entered the chamber… lead by Bhelen. Sod.

“Hurry Father! Before it’s too…”

The assembled dwarves gasped in unison as they took in the sight of Aothor knealing over Trians body. King Endrin pushed past the others towards his two sons. 

“By all the ancestors, what has happened here?” Endrin cried out, falling at Trian’s side. 

“It seems we weren’t fast enough. Bhelen was right.”

Aothor met Bhelen’s gaze from across the chamber. In that moment, he couldn’t even bring himself to hate him. His gaze was pulled back to his father, who had tears welling into his eyes.

“My son… tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

It looked like one of his sons had turned against the others. Which was exactly what had happened. It just wasn’t him.

“Would you even believe me?” He asked his father. Bhelen had stacked the deck too well. He wasn’t coming out of this whole, no matter what he said. 

“My lord is innocent!” Gorim protested. 

“Ser Gorim, your loyalty makes you a useless witness,” said Lord Harrowmont. “It falls to the others to tell the story.”

Aothor did and said nothing as the scout and Frandlin lied to Harrowmont. They were in Bhelen’s pocket, because of course they were. Everything had already been set up. He wondered how they had already arranged to execute him. 

“Do you have anything else to say, my son?” 

Aothor looked up at his father. This was his last chance. Endrin was the only one who might hear him. “Can you not see that this is all a set up?”

“I want to believe that, I really do.” And his father turned away. “Bind him. He will be tried before the Assembly. To Orzammar!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by Backstabbing Dwarves, or I Wrote This Entire Thing At 3am On A Road Trip So Please Be Kind
> 
> Leave Kudos if you likes it. Comment to give me hope.
> 
> Stay lovely <3


	7. A Burning Castle (Part 1)

He never thought he’d be bound with iron. He never thought he’d sit behind bars. Yet, there he was, sitting in a dank city cell in chains. It didn’t feel real. He was almost sure that any minute now Trian would come stomping in a ridicule him for being clueless and self-absorbed, and then he and Bhelen would share a knowing eye roll behind his back.

Now he wondered how much of his relationship with his younger brother was a lie. 

Did Bhelen really hate him so much? How long had be been planning this? There had to have been a way to avoid this. 

Even though it felt like an age that he sat in that cell, it couldn’t have been more than a day that had passed before Gorim came to see him. His second was in a similar state as he was—stripped of all armor and weapons and dressed in peasants’ clothes, with the grime and gore of the Deep Roads still clinging to his person. 

“Just so you know, if you make any jokes about my reputation, I’ll sodding hit you.”

The two of them shared a half-hearted laugh.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my lord. I… I would have come sooner, had they allowed it. How are you?”

Grieving. Heartbroken. Furious. 

Tired.

“I’m fine. Why hasn’t the Assembly called for me yet?

Gorim let out a slow breath “The Assembly isn’t going to call for you. Bhelen has taken Trian’s place in the Assembly. He introduced a motion to condemn you immediately, and it easily passed. He… had fully half of the Assembly ready to vote on something completely against tradition and justice! He must have been making deals and alliances for months, if not years.”

Aothor gave a dry chuckle. “I never though Bhelen would be capable of something like this. I underestimated him, and look where that’s gotten me. I hate him—Stone, do I hate him—but he has a mastery of this game you have to respect.”

“He’s certainly cleverer than either of us thought. Some of the lords, especially Harrowmont, are suspicious of Bhelen’s instant rise to power. They are rallying, but far too slowly. The Assembly has already sentenced both of us.”

Aothor held his head in his hands, wracking his brain for a loophole, some clever solution. “There has to be a way to fight this.”

“If there is one, I can’t imagine what it is. My knighthood will be stripped, my name torn from my family records… but I will be able to attempt some sort of life on the surface.”

Aothor couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. Gorim didn’t deserve to feel the political backlash of this, but as his second, there was no being shielded from it. At least he would live.

“Lord Harrowmont moved for a similar exile for you, but Bhelen’s supporters overwhelmed him. You are to be sealed in the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn until you are overwhelmed and killed.”

Or until he got lost and starved. Still, it was a warrior’s death. He could at least be grateful for that. 

“What has my father said about all this?”

Gorim shifted. Whatever the news was, it wasn’t good. “Lord Harrowmont says the king has taken ill. He couldn’t bear losing two of his children at once.” Aothor pressed his head against the bars. His father’s health was failing. Now it was even worse. Even if he didn’t kill Trian, he still fell for Bhelen’s plot. This was still partly his fault. “Lord Harrowmont gave me access to see you so I could tell you this: Duncan and the Grey Wardens are still in the Deep Roads, in tunnels that connect to those you are to be left in. If you survive long enough to find Duncan, you may be able to escape with them.”

“The Grey Wardens seemed to be good men, for humans.” And he supposed one casteless now, too.

“True. They don’t care about a person’s past. They recruit for daring, intelligence, and martial power—you know this, else you wouldn’t have suggested that casteless girl to them. If you can find them, I’m sure you could join them and escape the Deep Roads. I… I begged to go with you, to fight at your side, but Bhelen’s pet nobles wouldn’t hear of it.”

Aothor’s heart broke as he looked at the man who had truly been his brother when all others had betrayed him. “If you were able to come, I would have gladly had you.”

“I would give up all the safety in the world to go down this dark path with you. But our time is up. May the Paragons guide your sword and the Stone hold you up.”

“I’ll find you Gorim. Somehow. We’re not done yet, brother.”

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Aothor thought for a moment that he saw a tear fall down Gorim’s cheek and he turned and left the dungeon. “I will always be your man, my Lord Aeducan. Atrast nal tunsha.”

A company of guards came, and one unlocked the cell door. “They are ready for you my Lo—erm, prisoner.” The guard stammered. Aothor took a better look at him and the other guards. All Warrior Caste. Men he knew fairly well. Aothor realized his fatal flaw—he’d rallied the sword castes to his back, but they weren’t the ones who made the votes in the Assembly. 

Consequence is the cruelest teacher.

Pulled by chains, they lead him through the commons to the Deep Roads entrance. The hour was late and most businesses had closed for the day, and the streets were mercifully vacant. Still, this was the grandest walk of shame of them all. 

The guards at the gate only gave grim nods before allowing access. He walked with his escort through the branching tunnels to one of the many secondary seals that defended Orzammar’s location. This one in particular was used for exiling prisoners almost to an exclusion. 

Lord Harrowmont awaited them before the doors.

“Here is the prisoner, Lord Harrowmont.”

“Having been found guilty of fratricide by the Assembly of Orzammar, you are hereby sentenced to exile and death. Your name is, from this point forward, stripped from the records. You are no longer a person, nor a memory. You are to be cast into the Deep Roads with only sword and shield, there to redeem your life by fighting the enemies of Orzammar until your death,” said Harrowmont. Each word was a blow cementing the gravity of this reality. There was no going back. Just twenty four hours ago he’d been celebrating with his family and with his city. Now he had neither of those things. “Do you have anything to say before your sentence is carried out?”

Bhelen wouldn’t stop with him. He would steamroll anyone who got in his way. “Watch Bhelen. He will seek your destruction as surely as he has wrought my own.” He couldn’t keep the bite out of his words.

“I understand your anger. You should have been allowed to defend yourself before the Assembly. Had I the power to stop this, I would have. Just… look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do this. For your father’s sake.”

“I didn’t kill Trian.” He hadn’t killed Train. But for a few moments in those tunnels, a few dark and terrible moments, he’d thought about it. Was he really that different from Bhelen himself?

“I believe you. That means Bhelen planned this from the start. Believe me, I will spend the rest of my days ensuring Bhelen does not profit from his deeds. Your father asked me to give you these. The sword and shield are of fine dwarven make. Strike a blow at our enemies.”

Aothor turned the pieces over in his hand. They weren’t the quality he was accustomed to, but overall they were far better than he’d expected to receive. One last gesture from his father. “How is my father?” he asked, strapping the shield to his arm. 

“He is old and this tragedy hit him hard. He will rest better now, however, knowing the truth.”

“Make sure he knows I never wavered. That I went to a warrior’s death with honor.”

Harrowmont nodded. “I will. Open the doors and let the condemned walk through.” The chamber echoed with the sound of steel scraping against stone as the doors swung open to the tunnel ahead. “May the Stone accept you when you fall.”

The chains were lifted from his wrists and Aothor stared into the dark roads ahead. The Wardens had more than a day’s head start, and their mastery of the Roads was only matched by the Legion of the Dead. Though they were in this region, he was more likely to stumble over a darkspawn forge than a small troupe of Wardens.

But he couldn’t let it end like this. He would not die alone and shamed in the depths. 

Aothor lifted his sword and stepped into the darkness.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The blow caught him full in the chest and the next thing he knew he was on his ass in the dirt. His brother offered him a hand to stand, and he begrudgingly accepted it, whipping the dirt off of himself.

Fergus laughed. “You know, if you would stop overextending yourself, you might even spend as much time on your feet as you do on the ground.”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t see why I need to bother with hand-to-hand combat, anyways.” Peter’s fingers itched for his great-axe. Fergus wouldn’t be so smug if they were sparring fully armed. 

“It’s a useful skill, and it could save your life someday. There will be times in your life when you can’t walk around fully armed all day, you know,” Fergus chided.

“Yes, but that’s what Lady’s for,” said Peter, pointing to his faithful mabari who was napping under a tree in the courtyard. At the sound of her name she perked up, ears flicking in their direction.

Fergus rolled his eyes. “Lady won’t always be there either. What if an assassin tries to kill you in the middle of a fancy party, or maybe a bit more realistically, you get into a bar fight? I want you to be able to win.”

Oh. So that’s what this was about. “I… didn’t think you’d heard about that.”

“You didn’t think that I would hear that my rascal of a brother snuck down to the pub, got into a barfight with a couple of brutes, and had his ass readily handed to him?” Fergus gave him an incredulous look. “You can get into fights all you want. I just think, as a Cousland, you should be able to win those fights. Now square back up, we’re running that block until you can get it.”

Peter took his position, cursing under his breath while doing so. “In my defense, I was completely smashed. I could have fought a dead man and lost.”

Fergus threw a punch at him. Peter raised his arm to block it, only managing to just deflect the blow. “And a dead man could have blocked that better than you too. Again.”

It was another half our and a dozen more falls to the ground before Fergus decided Peter had a good enough grasp of the move. And in true brotherly form, at some point the sparring turned into the two of them wrestling like a pair of children. 

Peter nearly had his older brother successfully pinned when a familiar Antivan voice caused both men to still. 

“What in the Maker’s name are you two doing?” Oriana asked, trying very hard to look disapproving but not altogether succeeding. At her side, as always, was little Oren.

“Oren!” Fergus cried out, “Oren, help, I’m under attack!”

“I’ll save you, Father!” 

Peter looked at Fergus in disbelief, and Fergus only gave him a smug grin in reply. Involving Oren was hardly fair—the kid was everyone’s weakness. Peter gave Fergus a look that promised revenge as he allowed the six-year-old to tackle him off of his father. 

Fortunately, he had an ally of his own he could call on.

As Oren began playfully pulling on Peter’s hair, Peter let out a shrill whistle. From his peripheral, he could see a blur of snowy white fur as Lady ran in their direction. Fergus, who was just beginning to sit up, found himself pinned by near two hundred pounds of mabari and assaulted by slobbery kisses. 

Over Oren’s delighted giggles and Fergus’s cries of disgust, Peter distinctly heard Oriana mutter something about being surrounded by children.

“Fine, fine! It’s a draw! Stand down!” called Fergus, trying in vain to remove Lady from his person. 

Peter easily lifted little Oren off of him and then snapped his fingers, calling Lady off and setting his brother free. She then turned to Oren and began to lick the dirt off his cheeks, much to the boys immense delight.

“Mother! When can I have my own mabari?” Oren asked, scratching Lady’s ears. Oriana frowned—the Antivan woman still wasn’t sold on the concept of a wardog as a pet for her son. Peter was sure Fergus would talk her around eventually.

“Perhaps when your taller than one,” she said noncommittally. 

Oren groaned. “But that will take _forever.”_

“Oh, not so long I’m sure,” said Fergus, whipping his face off on his sleeve. Peter had to agree. It seemed like only yesterday that Oren was lying in a crib unable to lift his own head, and here he was now, demanding to learn how to ride a horse and playing swordfight with wooden sticks. 

Fergus stood and moved to embrace his wife, but she held him off with a hand. “No kisses for you until you’ve bathed the drool and dirt off of you. That goes for you too, Oren.”

“Kisses are gross anyways,” said Oren.

“Are they now?” Fergus chucked, then swooped in and kissed his wife’s cheek despite her chiding. Oren made a retching sound, and Peter joined him in pretending to be sick. Oriana rolled her eyes fondly before offering her husband a handkerchief so he could wipe off his face. “So what has the two of you coming out to the courtyard at a time like this? I thought you were going to be working with Mother up until supper and Oren was to be in lessons.”

“Aldous thought Oren could do well to stretch his legs a bit, he’s been fidgeting all day. And your father actually asked me to collect the two of you; something urgent has come up.”

“We’d better get cleaned up then,” said Peter. He got to his feet and called Lady to his side, returning to the castle interior. 

After putting on a fresh change of clothes he found his parents in the families private common room. Fergus and Oriana followed just a minute after him. Oren, it seemed, had returned to his lesson. Which was probably a good thing, because judging by his parents solemn expressions, this conversation was one the kid didn’t need to hear.

“Thank you for coming so quickly. I would not have called this family meeting so suddenly if it weren’t important.” 

“It’s no trouble, Father.” Peter said, seating himself on the couch opposite his mother, who clutched a letter in her hands. 

“I take you’ve all heard about the darkspawn raids to the south?” 

“Of course. The king’s already taken a force to put them down,” said Fergus.

“Is that what this is about? I thought all news said they were experiencing victory. Has that changed?” Peter eyed the letter his mother held more closely. It bore a wax seal on it—the royal seal.

“No, actually. All news continues to bear well for the king and his forces,” said Mother. “He has, however, sent summons commanding additional forces to come south. Our forces, specifically.”

Peter leaned forwards intently. “How soon do we march?”

“As the situation isn’t particularly dire, we can take this week to prepare our men and supplies and then Fergus and I will march south with them before the end of next,” said Father, giving Peter a particularly meaningful look. 

“I want to come. I can help.”

“We know that darling. But you must think practically,” said Mother. “Highever will still need managing, and that’s just as important as riding off to battle.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” Was he aware that he was pouting? Yes. As a youngest child it was his Maker-given right. Though he’d long learned it wouldn’t get him anywhere anymore.

“Oh, cheer up Pup,” Fergus said, patting him on the shoulder, “You’re much better at administrative work than Father or me, anyways. Could you imagine if I was left in charge? Highever would probably burn to the ground.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be that bad, Fergus,” chuckled Father. “Besides, should the King need to call for naval support, you and mother will need to be at hand with the armada. The battle is currently land-locked, but that could always change.”

“Oh, this is truly awful. And so close to winter, too!” exclaimed Oriana, taking Fergus’s hand in her own.

Fergus took the summons from mother and looked them over. “Winter’s a few months off, yet. If the fighting continues to go as well as it has, it likely won’t be but a handful of weeks before we can put the darkspawn down. We might even be able to make it home before the first snowfall.”

“That’s the hope,” said Mother. “This next week will be busy for all of us. Fergus, you and your father will speak with the captains and see about organizing and dividing our troops. Oriana, I would like for you to work with the servants of the household and see if there are any volunteers to attend to our troops once they arrive at the camp. I’ll contact the Howes—they’re so close, perhaps our men could travel jointly.” Despite his disappointment at being left home, Peter couldn’t help but smile as his mother transitioned from regal teyrna to strategic raider. If nothing else, they could all trust she knew what she was doing. “Pup, I’d like you to speak with the local smiths and merchants and establish suppliers for the forces. Any questions, anyone?”

“Yes—have you also planned out the exact battle strategy to defeat the darkspawn?” Peter asked, laughing under his breath. His family joined him in chuckling as Mother rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pup. Bryce, do you have anything else?”

“Remember, the people will take their cue from us. If we maintain a calm composure in the face of uncertainty, so shall they. Maker willing, we’ll come through this whole.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Aothor waited, back pressed to the wall of the tunnel, for the darkspawn to round the corner. He caught the first genlock by surprise, stunning it with a strike from his shield before decapitating it. The second genlock didn’t give him a moment to breathe, releasing rapid shots from it’s short bow. One pierced his shield, and the other he only barely managed to avoid. 

He was preoccupied with striking the second genlock down and didn’t notice the third one until it lept upon him from the shadows, double daggers drawn and aimed for his neck.

He tumbled to the ground, genlock on top of him, wrestling the blades inches from his body. It shrieked, gnashing at him with it’s disgusting maw. Drawing from the depths of his willpower he forced them to roll over and turned the genlock’s grip and pierced it’s chest with it’s own jagged weapons. 

Aothor straightened, breathing heavy in the now silent tunnels. He picked up the sword which had fallen from his hand, adjusted the shield on his arm, and kept moving. 

Thanks to his Stone Sense he knew that it had been six days since his exile. Five days of darkness, tunnels, and darkspawn. Aothor considered himself experienced when navigating the Deep Roads—he’d been part of expeditions since he was old enough for his father to allow it and even lead plenty on his own. 

But that was different. Back then he had a company of seasoned warriors at his back, maps, objectives, a family that supported him, and Gorim at his side. 

Now he had nothing and no one. 

The armor he wore now was not crafted of quality by the best smiths of Orzammar, but rather patchwork chainmail peeled off a rotting half-eaten corpse of a condemned dwarf. 

The dehydration was setting into his system now, and the knot in his belly tightened continually. He’d found no water source that wasn’t Blighted beyond hope, and doing so was becoming almost a more pressing objective than finding the Wardens.

The only trace of the Wardens had been signs of a camp he discovered on the second day. Since then, nothing. The only source of hope that it had been a relatively straight shot with few branching paths, so as long as he did not stop, he had at least a chance of stumbling across them.

His muscles ached and his mind cried out for release, but if he stopped for more than a few hours at a time he ran the risk of never catching up to them. 

The only thing that kept him putting one foot before the other was spite—Bhelen expected him to face his end in the Deeps. But just as Aothor had underestimated his younger brother, so too had Bhelen underestimated him. 

If Bhelen wanted to ensure he died, he would have been smarter to cut Aothor’s head off in an execution.

This exile would not be his end.

Aothor stilled. The tunnels were no longer completely silent. A quiet rumble echoed from further ahead. He trained his ears, trying to discern what it was. Then, the floor beneath him shook slightly as a dull explosion sounded in the distance.

Hope burned inside him as he took off running.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The plan was simple, but it all went to shit really fast. That seemed to be the theme of her life. 

Sam and Edmund were going to stay up on the ridge while she, Farrien, Oliver, and Duncan got in close with the darkspawn to draw them out of their camp defenses and towards the tunnel choke point so the mage and archer could pick them off from the ledge. Nothing fancy. And still they fucked up. 

While Edmund was the one light the fuse, in hindsight she could see she was the one who handed him the bomb. Almost literally, in fact. Though, all of them really should have been paying better attention. She and the two melee Wardens successfully drew the majority of the genlocks towards the tightest point of the tunnel, exactly where they wanted them. Edmund and Sam were lining up their shots. 

Hoping to speed the process along, she stepped ahead of the others and took one of her flaming pitch grenades and threw it into the oncoming monsters. And Edmund, true to his form, launched a fireball to ignite the grease. 

It was at this point she realized they’d all somehow failed to notice the fain scent of rotting eggs in the tunnel, likely because the acidic reek of darkspawn was so overpowering. As it was, the fireball blazed the air around them, catching the pitch, shaking the tunnel with a roar, and the ceiling above started to crash down on them. 

There was no time to think. Reacting solely on instinct she turned and leapt, pushing Duncan and herself away from the flames engulfing the tunnel. As she fell to the ground a weight crushed down on her body, knocking the wind from her body. She gasped out a scream, trying to wriggle out from under the slab of the tunnel’s ceiling that had her pinned.

Above her, Edmund yelled out a swear-filled apology. At her sides, the three human Wardens were dodging away from falling rocks. Behind her, darkspawn screamed and burned and started charging through the remaining flames.

She gaged—burning darkspawn smelled _so_ much worse than normal darkspawn.

She watched as Duncan and the others glanced at her and then each other drew their blades as darkspawn broke through the flames and approached the choke point. With her one free arm, she grimaced and gave Duncan a thumbs-up—the rock was heavy and she couldn’t move, but it wouldn’t kill her. The darkspawn definitely would. 

Pinned face down and facing back towards Sam and Edmund—who managed to stop freaking out and were launching non-flammable ranged attacks towards the darkspawn—she couldn’t actually see the fight. 

What she could see was a dwarf running towards her. She blinked and met his eyes, and for a second she was back in the Proving arena, facing down the Prince of Orzammar. She blinked again. He was still there, now kneeling at her side. Maybe the gas in these tunnels didn’t just explode—maybe it also made people go absolutely crazy. She was feeling a bit light headed, come to think…

“Are you hurt?”

She blinked up at him. A slab of tunnel sealing had her nearly crushed. No shit, she was hurt. Alas, as she only had one hand with limited mobility and the other completely inaccessible, she only nodded in reply.

She watched as the prince took stock of the surroundings, as he took stock of the two ranged combatants and the three Wardens engaged in melee with darkspawn in various states of inflammation, and the pieces of the tunnel blown to bits. Yeah, they were kind of a mess. To be fair, he looked like he’d seen better days himself. His blonde hair and beard were completely disheveled and filthy, he was wearing armor on par with what she wore in the carta—that is to say, scraps that barely held together. To top it off, every bit of him was covered in questionable grime. 

The prince unstrapped the metal shield from his arm and slipped it halfway beneath the rock slab. Liri caught on quick enough—he was going to use it as a lever. “I won’t be able to lift it for long. Get ready to drag yourself out.”

He strained, grunting with the force it took to shift the slab enough for her to get even a sliver of room to maneuver. She scraped herself across the ground, clearing out just barely before his grip slipped. 

Liri barely allowed herself more than a moment to breathe before staggering to her feet, daggers drawn in her grip. She ignored both the pain in her sides and the prince’s suggestions to stay down and stalked towards a pair of genlocks pressuring Oliver. There weren’t many darkspawn left—between the Warden’s expert combat work and the earlier explosion, all that was left was for her to slip around the edges and shank the baddies from behind. The prince was hardly idle, either—his shield was back on his arm and he stood alongside the Wardens and helped finish of the darkspawn.

They stood in the aftermath of the encounter, singed and sore but overall no worse for wear. She watched briefly as Duncan and his fellow Wardens grouped around the prince, but turned away from them and staggered to Edmund, gripping her sides.

“I’m so, so sorry. I screwed up. We’re lucky no one died,” He said, looking rightly ashamed of himself.

 _“Don’t worry about it. That was kind of the culmination of all of us not really paying attention. Anyways, you’re still new at fighting with a group, and to be honest I normally worked alone. This is new to both of us. Plus, you know, darkspawn and explosive invisible gas.”_ she said. 

Edmund sighed, twisting his staff in his grip. Poor guy just looked so disappointed with himself. “Classic case of ‘wizard casts fireball, party gets fucked.’” Liri blinked at him, and he only shrugged. “Ok, so how bad were you hurt? I’m honestly surprised you’re up and moving around right now.”

_“Dwarves are a bit sturdier than you delicate surfacers. I’ll be just fine—feels like I might have bruised my ribs though. Think you could magic me all better? You mages can do that, right?”_

“Ah. Well, yes, technically, I suppose. Thing is… I don’t know how to do that. Not without potentially setting you on fire anyways, and I think you’ve had enough near-death experiences for today,” said Edmund sheepishly.

Liri grimaced. She didn’t know enough about magic shit to push it, but she knew she definitely did not want to chance his pyromaniac tendencies. 

_“Did you see Aeducan’s here?”_

“Yeah. He looks like hell. Must have been trailing us for days; have to give him credit for jumping straight in to help with no questions asked.” 

Liri frowned up at the mage. He was watching Aeducan and Duncan with almost a casual indifference, almost like he was bored, or distracted by something in his own brain. Was he just not as interested in the fact that a dwarven ruler of Orzammar appears out of nowhere in the middle of the Deep Roads separated from his troops and looking like shit? Maybe. Not like Aeducan was his ruler, after all. 

Duncan’s voice rose to fill the chamber. “As leader of the Grey Wardens, I would like to formally invite you to join our Order.”

Wait. What?

“I accept.”

Sodding _what?_

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Introductions were made, though they hardly seemed necessary. His fellow Wardens made polite conversation with the recruit as was their custom, but they were scarcely in a position to carry on conversation. 

Duncan had to credit their dwarven companions—despite current injuries and levels of exhaustion, both insisted on carrying forward with the current mission, though Duncan noticed Aothor’s weakened condition and quietly passed him a water jug—it did them no good if the former prince died of dehydration before he was able to attempt his Joining.

Duncan double-checked their supplies as the party stopped for a quick rest. Despite the addition to their team, they wouldn’t need to thin out their rations. 

Edmund had been adamant about packing an extra set of everything, including armor and bedding, even volunteering to carry the extra equipment himself. He and the other Wardens, even Liri, had chalked it up to nerves and fear of getting lost or separated in the depths, and allowed him the extra equipment simply to humor him. 

Now, watching as Edmund offered Aothor a pack of rations and some basic pieces of armor—armor sized for a dwarf, no less, Duncan couldn’t help but wonder… 

Duncan was pulled from his musings by Liri tapping his arm to get his attention.

_“Hey, what the fuck? You weren’t serious about Aeducan in the Wardens, were you?”_

“His story is his own to tell, so I would suggest you ask him yourself. I will simply say that he has found he is no longer welcome in Orzammar, and has found a new home with the Wardens. Not so unlike yourself, perhaps.”

Liri bristled, something like offense or disgust overcoming her features. _“I’m nothing like him. There better be a sodding good punch line, because so far this joke isn’t funny.”_

“I have told you before—the Wardens take anyone and everyone who display the skill and willpower necessary for standing against the darkspawn. Soldiers, commoners…” he gave the dwarven woman a pointed look, nodding in Aothor’s direction as he spoke, “criminals, and kings. The old lives are left behind, and all Wardens stand equally together.”

Liri huffed, turning away. Duncan knew there would be an adjusting period, especially with recruits from such vastly different walks of life. Liri and Edmund had already settled into a comfortable comradery with one another—now it only remained to see how Aothor would fit into their mix. Liri somehow managed to avoid interacting with Aothor for the entire rest of the day. To be fair, Aothor barely looked coherent enough to continue putting one foot in front of the other, let alone carry on a conversation. 

Duncan called for an early night stop and they located a dead-end to camp in. The night proceeded quietly on all fronts—Aothor inhaled his rations and promptly passed out on the spare bedroll, Liri took the first watch with Oliver, and Edmund busied himself writing in a journal by the light of a small flame in his free palm, which would occasionally flicker out or combust in a small explosion, nearly costing the man his eyebrows. 

Needless to say, they all kept a solid ten feet from the mage all night.

Morning, or what the dwarves of the team informed them was morning, brought a nest of angry deepstalkers not long after they’d eaten breakfast and packed up. 

“You’re certainly putting that mace to good use,” Aothor said, watching as Liri used the weapon in question to bash the last deepstalker’s skull in. 

Liri raised a brow, turning the weapon over in her grip before hooking it to her belt. _“Not like I was gonna use it to scratch my ass. Don’t usually go for blunt weapons, but this one’s so nice I wouldn’t pass it up.”_

If the use of handspeech surprised Aothor, he did not show it, and he seemed to understand her just fine as well. They were interacting, and it was even borderline positive. Duncan saw this as a win.

“Your form is good too; just don’t put too much force behind your swings or you’ll tire yourself out. Let the weight of the mace carry itself and you’ll save more energy.”

Ah. Duncan sighed, running a hand over his face. Perhaps he’d spoken too soon.

Liri cocked her head to the side, rolling her eyes. _“I could do that. Or I could hit the things really hard so they die really fast.”_

“Yes, but if you expend energy too fast you’ll run out of stamina. Endurance is key to winning a series of encounters.” 

Liri hummed, smirking. _“I’ve never had a problem with endurance, though I understand not all of us can be so fortunate. If you’re looking for help with your stamina, some noble hunters told me about this herb they like to give their deshyrs…”_

Aothor blinked, the full set of her remark taking a moment to sink in. “Are we… even talking about the same thing anymore?”

 _“Of course. Who wouldn’t benefit from a boost to their endurance? Though, in my experience, it’s only you noble boys who have problems with stamina.”_

Edmund snickered, “I don’t think I can summon ice cold enough to soothe those burns, Aeducan. You walked right into that one.”

Aothor, who just a moment earlier looked quite indignant and prepared to give what would surely have been a scathing come-back, deflated immediately. “Aothor. Just Aothor, please. I’m no longer an Aeducan.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Edmund fidgeted awkwardly. Liri gave Aothor a curious look, but shrugged and continued down the passage without another word.

Sam leaned over to whisper in Duncan’s ear. “So… were they fighting, or flirting?”

Duncan sighed. “Sometimes there isn’t much of a difference.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by The Deep Roads Suck, or I Re-Wrote This Chapter Five Separate Times And Am Still Not Satisfied But It's Time To Move On.
> 
> Current update goal is at least once a month, twice if I can stay on top of things.
> 
> Leave Kudos if you liked it. Comment to see dem aliens in Area 51.
> 
> Stay lovely <3


	8. A Burning Castle (Part 2)

He breathed in, the air fresher than it had been all week. Edmund, for one, could not wait to see sunlight again. Grimy, tired, and sore all over, he and the Wardens were revitalized by the promise of drawing nearer to the surface. 

Fuck the Deep Roads. The “main campaign” hadn’t even started yet and he already had enough material to fuel his nightmares for the next several years. On the plus side, there was no guarantee he’d even survive long enough for the Orzammar quest line later on, so he may never have to deal with that again.

The concept quickly became far more sobering—and panicking—so he shut that train of thought down before the anxiety could set in. Somehow he’d managed to postpone the full-mental-breakdown, but he knew wouldn’t be able to hold it off much longer. Sooner or later he was going to need to find a nice secluded corner where he could process everything without anyone asking any well-deserved questions about his mental state. 

To be fair, he’d done better than he originally expected so far. He was still alive, at least. And the traveling he was doing now with Duncan from origin story to origin story was helping him build the skills and experience he’d need later. This whole “fake it ‘til you make it” mentality was serving him better than ever before.

The last few days in the Deep Roads hadn’t been so bad as the first ones, comparatively. They were encountering fewer and fewer darkspawn, apparently because they’d gathered enough to know that all the darkspawn were collectively gathering in the south, and Duncan had turned their group north towards an exit.

While he and the other humans found renewed energy at the promise of surfacing, their dwarven companions were far less excited. Liri continually looked back over their shoulder, like she was having second thoughts and wondering if going back was worth it. Aothor, who was doing remarkably well given his half-dead state just a few days ago, was dead-eyed and steely as they marched onwards. 

“I promise if you start falling up into the sky I’ll grab onto you and hold you down,” Edmund said, falling into step beside Liri.

Liri looked up at him, eyes wide. _“Wouldn’t you fly away too?”_

“Nah. You see, we all wear spikes on the bottom of our shoes, keeps us stuck to the ground.”

She cast a skeptical look towards his boots. _“Then why aren’t there any on yours?”_

“These are my underground shoes, you see. I have a different pair I wear topside.”

“Relax, he’s joking. People don’t actually fall into the sky,” said Aothor, rolling his eyes. He still cast Edmund a concerned look, almost like he was simply praying this was all a joke. Edmund shrugged. Liri kicked him in the shins.

“I honestly think you guys will like the surface, once you get used to it. It’s so much more colorful than underground. Well. Actually most of Ferelden is just as brown as Orzammar is. But I’m sure it’s beautiful sometimes. Somewhere.”

 _“Fantastic. Nice to know we have so much to look forwards to.”_ She huffed. Regardless of whatever resentment she held towards Aothor and his former station, right now they did have something to mutually bond over—the unknown. 

Edmund twisted his staff in his hand idly. “To be perfectly honest, I haven’t even seen most of Ferelden,” Not in real life, anyways. “I’ve spent most of my life in the Circle, and I was born a Marcher. It’ll be an adventure for all of us.” Thank goodness for all the random dives he’d taken into the Dragon Age Wiki pages during his more bored evenings. All that supposedly useless information was coming in clutch now. 

Still, once he met Wynne it would become painfully apparent he didn’t know the actual events of the real Edmund’s life. But he’d burn that bridge when he got to it.

The tunnels around them became less refined and less structured and glowing stones were replaced with rustic torches as they followed Duncan through the passages and up a spiraled set of questionable wooden stairs. The planks groaned and creaked under their weight, but didn’t threaten to break. Something about this place pulled at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t place it.

Fresh air filled his lungs as they stepped outside. Liri and Aothor lingered back in the cave. Duncan motioned for them to come out and the humans waited patiently, seating themselves on nearby boulders, understanding the dwarves would have to take some time to adjust. 

Aothor was the first to emerge. His steps were shaky and he kept his gaze fixed firmly to his boots, as if looking up to see the sky would somehow cause him to fall into it. 

Liri, however, marched out with her head held high. She stared upwards for a minute into the expanse of blue, then unceremoniously turned, fell on all fours, and threw up. 

Edmund, at something of a loss, awkwardly patted her back as she wretched. 

Aothor stumbled and fell to his knees, breathing heavily. “Stone, I think I’m going to pass out. Breathing feels so… weird. It’s so bright up here…” Edmund watched as the dwarf squinted, blinking his eyes in an effort to adjust.

The small groan that escaped Liri sounded something akin to an agreement, finally done spilling the contents of her gut. Rather than get up, she stayed on the ground, running her fingers through the grass. 

“We’re surface dwarves now. We can’t ever go back.”

 _“We’re not just surfacers,”_ Liri says, finally righting herself. _“We’re Grey fucking Wardens.”_ Liri stands, looking at Aothor with what Edmund can only vicariously translate as a challenge. Aothor steels himself, rising both to that challenge and to his feet.

They both look paler than normal, and their gazes fixed level or toward the ground, and Edmund worries that Aothor might drop like a sack of rocks at any given moment or that Liri might continue her retching, but they definitely looked better than they did a moment ago.

“Sorry for the hold up,” says Aothor. “We’re ready to go.”

“It’s quite alright,” said Duncan. “I fear it will likely take you several days to adapt to the new environment, but in the meantime we should continue on.”

For all the ordeal that was the dwarves first time on the surface, Edmund couldn’t help but just be relieved to be in the sunlight again. He turned to take in their surroundings— during the few short weeks that they’d been underground, autumn had taken hold of most of the scenery. A few trees still kept their green, but several were alight with red orange and yellow leaves. Though the air had a chill, the sunlight was warm on his face. They were up on something like a hill, and in the land stretched out before them there sat a little village near a small lake resting in the shadow of… a dam. 

Edmund stood, turning to Duncan. “Where are we?” he asked, not completely able to keep the nerves out of his voice.

“Northern Ferelden,” Duncan said, “Not too far from the Storm Coast and Highever. I believe this town is called Crestwood.”

Stumbling corpses rising out of a lake to assail the living, a lake formed from the destruction of this beautiful little town. Refugees drowned to death in the very caves they just emerged from. In just a few short months—maybe even weeks—Crestwood would be changed forever. 

They fell into procession down the hill, and Edmund fell in step with Duncan. “Shouldn’t we warn these people about the darkspawn?”

“And what would we tell them?”

“That they’re not safe. That they need to evacuate. I don’t know, just, we should do something.” It wasn’t just that _they_ had to do something. _He_ had to do something. Maybe they could evacuate the town? Where would they even go? The Free Marches, perhaps? He wanted to use what he knew to help people. These people needed help—if not now, then very, very soon, and he would probably get another chance like this to aid them.

“All that would do is create a senseless panic at this point, if they even believed us. Crestwood is far to the north of Ostagar, for now completely safe, as far as they likely see it. The best way we can help these people is to return to Ostagar and present the results of our mission to the King and pray that we can end the darkspawn threat before it can spread farther,” Duncan said. He looked at Edmund with an expression that reminded him uncannily of his dad. “Edmund, your heart is in the right place. But knowing when to pick your battles is an important part of being a Grey Warden. For now, let’s simply focus on resting and preparing for the journey ahead.”

Duncan lead them instead of into the town, up the road nearby and to the tavern settled at the top of the dam—the Rusted Horn, if Edmund remembered right. If he weren’t currently in the throes of a moral dilemma, he’d be excited about his first visit to an actual tavern, Dungeons and Dragons style. 

The innkeeper, somehow unsurprisingly, seemed to be an old friend of Duncan’s and gave them a round of free drinks and a discount on a hot meal. Eager for food that wasn’t field rations, they all stowed their gear in their rooms and sat down together. 

Ferelden food was something he was still getting used to, but at this point Edmund was just glad for something that wasn’t dried druffalo jerky or stale crackers. The soup the inn served was, admittedly, a bit bland, and he wasn’t sure what the grey chunks in it were, but that wasn’t going to stop him. 

“I believe we should take this opportunity to discuss our next steps,” Duncan said as the innkeeper brought out seven mugs of what Edmund assumed would be ale. 

“What’s to decide?” One of the Wardens, Oliver, asked, already bringing the mug to his mouth. “We’re heading back to Ostagar come morning, aren’t we? We’ve got to deliver this intel to King Cailan.”

“Yes, the king must be alerted as soon as possible. That is why the three of you will make for Ostagar first thing tomorrow.”

“And what’ll you be doing?” asked Farrien. 

“I plan to make for Highever tomorrow and go on to Denerim from there.”

“More recruiting? With these three, plus the two waiting for us at the army camp, we’ll have five recruits. That’s plenty, don’t you think?”

Duncan shook his head. “Recruitment is not my primary concern with this trip, though I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity if it presents itself. We’d only counted on no more than three total recruits, but now we have five, and we do not have enough… supplies… to Join all of our new recruits. I need to stop by the Denerim compound to retrieve more components.”

“What kind of components?” Aothor asked. Edmund watched as the Wardens shared a long look. For his part, he decided this was the perfect opportunity to dig into his potatoes. 

“Something you recruits will discover once we get to Ostagar. Don’t worry too much about it for now,” said Sam. “I’ll say that this will likely be the most interesting group of recruits the Wardens have seen in quite some years—we’ve got a pick-pocket, a knight, a mage, an ex-carta member, and former dwarven royal.” The attempt to switch the topic was obvious and clumsy and Edmund had a feeling that Aothor wasn’t going to let it go quite so easily.

“To be fair, I feel that our group had a strange mix as well,” chuckled Oliver.

Edmund caught Liri signing across the table and began to interpret aloud for the others at the table. _“How did you all join the Wardens?”_ Liri asked.

“I actually got rejected by the Wardens the first two times I volunteered to Join.” Oliver said, smiling fondly at the memory.

Edmund frown thoughtfully—he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of the Wardens rejecting anyone before. Oliver caught his look and guessed what he was thinking easily enough. “Well we Wardens don’t just take anyone, you know. You’ve got to have certain skills, and a certain temperament. I didn’t have either until later on.” 

“So how did you end up here if they didn’t want to take you?” asked Aothor.

“I’ll get to it. My father was a wealthy merchant. Our family owned a fair few trading ships and did business with the Free Marches and Orlais, and I was an entitled brat with more sovereigns than he knew what to do with.”

 _“Funny, I didn’t have you pegged as a rich boy,”_ said Liri. Edmund gave Oliver a considering look. He was a bit older, probably near Duncan’s age, and everything from his build to his beard was unkempt as the rest of them.

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyways, I had a bit of a gambling problem and got on the wrong side of some powerful people of ill repute. I was on bad terms with my family so they wouldn’t buy me out, so I figured I’d join the Wardens as an escape route, never mind that I didn’t know the sharp end of a sword from the grip. I was turned away and told to get myself some training if I wanted to be a Warden—which to be fair, I didn’t, I just didn’t want to be gutted by some goons in my sleep. I had to get out of town to avoid that, so I joined a caravan and took to a life on the roads for a few years. Picked up some handy skills, joined a band of mercenaries, all that rot. Met some Wardens again three years after my initial attempt to join, and you know what happened?”

“They turned him down flat—again,” Sam snickered into his goblet.

“Why? You said you were skilled by that time,” Edmund asked. He felt a small nagging in the back of his skull that he managed to join the Wardens with nearly no practical combat knowledge, and sooner or later his luck was going to give and the others would realize that. It was miraculous that none of the others had clued in yet, though he had a sinking suspicion that Duncan was realizing. Again, another bridge he’d burn when the time came.

“Sure, I was competent in a fight and had a strong sword arm, but I was still the same brat that I was the first time. The arrogance and selfishness was still engrained in my system, and they picked up on that right away.”

“Entitled is an ugly look on a Warden,” Duncan added softly.

“Not that we’re all Chantry Sisters or anything like that,” Farrien chimed in, “but this lifestyle—this mission—it requires people who can think beyond themselves.”

“Exactly. So, it wasn’t until another four years after that when I actually ended up becoming a Warden. I learned a lot of hard lessons about life and sacrifice and ate a few slices of humble pie along the way. I was invited to join the Wardens after we had a chance encounter and saved each other from a bandit ambush. Funny, after I’d given up on the Wardens, they came to me. Just shows you never know what’s going to happen, I suppose.” 

“Right, right, very inspirational. Don’t go getting all sentimental on us now, Ollie. There’s still time yet for you to be gobbled up by an ogre,” Farrien said, rolling his eyes.

Oliver shrugged, turning with renewed interest to his dinner. “I’m touched, truly I am. Go on then, it’s story time. Your turn to share.”

“Right. I’ll keep this short then. I was a thief, sort of still am, and a damn good one to boot. I can get in anywhere and get out without anyone noticing. Stole all kinds of shit back in the day, but I mostly went for jewels. Easy to redistribute and sell, even easier to fake and replace to so no one notices anything is gone until possibly years later.”

_“So what happened? You get caught?”_

“Madam, how you wound me!” Farrien said, holding his heart overdramatically as if he’d been struck. “I’ll have you know my record is unbroken. Never got caught, at least not for stealing. See, I was just about to hit this big mark in Gwaren when I accidently caused a stampede of druffalo in the market district and got arrested.”

Edmund couldn’t help but laugh a little. “How do you ‘accidentally’ cause a druffalo stampede?”

“Well it’s not like it’s something most folks would try to do on purpose! Anyways, that’s not the point. The guards had me in cuffs when good ol’ Duncan here steps forward, asks the guards a couple questions, and next thing I know I’m on my way to becoming a Warden instead of the nearest cell to be tried for excessive damage of personal and public property.”

“That’s… wow.” Aothor said. The dwarven man turned to Duncan with skepticism on his face. “Is that true, or is he bullshitting us?”

“It was one of the odder turns of events I’ve witnessed, but yes, it’s true. I’d not have intervened if it weren’t for the fact that he managed to pick clean all the pockets of all three of the guards wrangling him while they tried to wrestle him into cuffs. Something like that takes either dumb luck or professional training,” said Duncan, smiling fondly at the memory. 

Farrien laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “If you think that’s wild, wait ‘til you hear Sam’s conscription story. This madman—”

“No.”

“Oh, but Sammy, please, let me tell it!”

Sam shook his head, taking a long and heavy drink from his cup. “Absolutely not. I shouldn’t have even told you, let alone let you tell the last batch of recruits. No.”

“But what you did with the turkeys and the glue was legendary!”

“Farrien, shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

Farrien turned to them all dramatically, and Edmund couldn’t help but sit on the edge of his seat. “You see, dear Sam here used to be a perfectly ordinary baker. It turns out, all you need to impress the Wardens is three barrels of glue, four turkeys, an all-female traveling circus, and just a little bit of—”

They never found out what the fourth component was because Sam leapt and tackled Farrien out of his seat and onto the ground. 

Edmund watched and laughed as the two of them wrestled each other on the floor and Duncan and Oliver’s weak attempt to break them up. They spent the evening sharing stories of their exploits, of their close encounters and near escapes. Several times Farrien teased them with details of Sam’s recruitment, and each time Sam responded by either hurling a projectile at the rogue or just tackling him again to the floor—all in a mostly good-natured way.

It wasn’t until late into the night that they took to their room, tired, but filled with food, ale, and plenty of outlandish tales. 

It wasn’t until he laid down on the cot that Edmund realized a terrible, inescapable fact. Sam, Farrien, and Oliver would die very, very soon. Duncan would die very, very soon. 

He hated to admit it to himself, but until tonight he’d always regard the three other Wardens as… well, as NPCs. They weren’t important characters in the game. Hell, he didn’t even think they were in the game at all except as background characters in the Dwarven Noble Origin. They were never named or referenced again, just one of the many faceless casualties of Ostagar. 

Did it make him a terrible person that it was only now, after hearing their stories and their stories, that he was even taking their lives into account?

Edmund sat up in the cot, holding his head in his hands. The worst part was that it would be easiest to let them die. They weren’t part of the narrative at all. He already had uncontrolled elements in play with just Liri and Aothor, and if they were going to Highever and Denerim then they’d probably at least get Cousland and Tabris as well, and likely also Mahariel. There was no need to keep the three of them alive.

But they were people. Real actual people with real actual dreams and loves and goals. And so were all the people in Crestwood who would be killed by a flood and by corpses unless he did something about it. 

He reached into his bag and pulled out his journal and quill and ink, calling a small candle-sized flame to his palm for light. It was filling up surprisingly fast, sort of becoming his own actual codex for lore, maps, and information, and all of it was written in English so only he could read it.

He dipped his quill in the ink and started to plan.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“Isn’t there anything I can do to convince you to let me come with you, Father?” It was a weak request and Peter knew it. Every time he brought up the battle and his desire to accompany his Father and brother he was shut down. He didn’t even know why he kept asking, save for perhaps the small hope that maybe he could nag them into giving in.

Father smiled good-naturedly, but there was a tiredness behind it. “I’m certain you’d more than prove yourself, but I’m not at all willing to deal with your mother if you join the war effort. She’d kill me if I let you come along. I know she hides it well, but I’m sure she’s plenty twisted up as it is with Fergus and I going.”

It wasn’t fair, and he just wanted to help. But Peter knew he shouldn’t push it anymore than he already had, especially with Arl Howe watching the exchange awkwardly from Father’s side. 

Peter sighed, disheartened, but not yet defeated. “As you say, Father. Though perhaps I’ll be able to change Mother’s mind, yet. I’ll talk to her.”

“I doubt that. You know your mother—once she’s determined something, she doesn’t waver, and her mind is already made up. I suppose that’s the trouble though; you’re just the same way that she is.” 

“I know that looking after Highever is important, Father. But I can’t just sit idly by while you and Fergus are risking your lives on your own.”

Father chuckled. “I don’t imagine the two of us will be fighting the entire horde single-handedly. We’re taking the bulk of our forces with us. If anything, I’m worried about you and your mother. Only a token force is remaining here in Highever and they’ll have to be spread thin across the region to keep the peace.”

“And when the cat is away, the mice will play. I understand,” said Peter. 

“Now then, there’s a reason I called you here.” Father turned to a guardsman stationed at the door and nodded. “Please, show them in.”

The guards dutifully opened the door and four individuals entered the hall, two humans and two dwarves. They were all armed and armored, and clearly weathered and worn from travel. The oldest of the lot, and clearly the leader, approached where Peter stood with his Father and Arl Howe while the other three hung back several feet. 

Arl Howe sputtered and stammered for a moment, probably caught off guard by the sudden appearance of these people in the castle. “Your Lordship, you did not mention that a Grey Warden would be present.”

Peter surveyed the group while Arl Howe continued to fluster. The stern-looking dwarven man stood at attention in rigid posture, also clearly taking stock of the people before him. The petit dwarven woman, Peter noticed, was eyeing the silver chalices on a nearby display with great interest. He made a note to get a guard to keep an eye out for any sticky fingers. A human man, probably close to his own age, stood between the two of them. The most notable thing about him wasn’t his pretty blue eyes or well-proportioned features—though Peter definitely did notice—but the intensity with which he was gazing at Arl Howe. 

Peter shifted, on the alert at once. Men who looked at someone like that only ever did so with deadly intent.

He was already of half a mind to call a guard when he was startled from his thoughts by a question from his father. “Ah—yes, Father. They Grey Wardens are an ancient order of warriors.” As his father elaborated, Peter looked back at the man only to find that his gaze had shifted from Howe to him, though any bloodlust he thought he’d sensed from before was gone. Peter met his gaze, brow raised. The man blinked once, then twice, then looked away, staring blankly into the air. 

Paranoid or not, Peter would get someone to watch him. You couldn’t be too careful. 

“Pup, this is Ser Duncan of the Grey Wardens. Duncan, this is Arl Howe, an old friend of mine, and this is my youngest son, Peter. Duncan, I take it these are your fellow Wardens?”

“Nearly, your Lordship. These are Warden Recruits Amell, Brosca, and Aothor.” Each bowed briefly as Ser Duncan introduced them, save for the dwarven woman, who seemed at a loss with the proper protocol and just sort of waved.

“Ah, that’s right, you did say you were travelling for recruitment,” Father turned towards him briefly with an aside remark. “Sir Gilmore seemed to catch his eye earlier, I believe.”

Rod? He was certainly a capable fighter, and a good man, but Peter didn’t know if he liked the thought of his best and oldest friend leaving and fighting darkspawn for the rest of the life. He’d simply never considered a future when Roderick Gilmore wasn’t standing at his side.

“If I might be so bold, I would also suggest that your son is also an excellent candidate. I recall he was a formidable fighter in the tourney I observed on my last visit.” said Duncan, clearly eyeing the great-axe strapped to his back.

Immediately his father was on the defensive, shifting slightly so that he stood between him and the Wardens. “Honor though that may be, this is one of my sons we’re talking about.”

“Don’t worry Father; much as I want to fight against the darkspawn, I’d rather do it with you and Fergus than with the Wardens,” said Peter, putting a reassuring hand on his father’s shoulder.

Duncan raised his hands in a yielding motion. “Have no fear. While we need as many good recruits as can be found, I’ve no intention of forcing the issue.”

Father visibly relaxed, removing himself from between Peter and Duncan. “Peter, Duncan and his recruits will only be here for a few nights, but can you ensure that all of Duncan’s requests are seen to while I’m gone?”

“Certainly. Provided, of course, that I’m here to see to them and I’m not off with you to Ostagar,” Peter said with a grin.

Father gave him a stern look but seemed to decide that it wasn’t the time or place to renew the issue for the millionth time. “Go find Fergus for me, tell him that he’ll be leading the troops to Ostagar ahead of me. We need to discuss the coming battle and strategies. We’ll talk more later.”

Peter looked back over at the Warden Recruits before he left the hall. Recruit Brosca was still eyeing the silver chalices, maybe even standing nearer to them than she had been moments previously. Recruit Aothor had relaxed his posture only slightly but was still dutiful as ever. Recruit Amell was tapping his foot with rhythmic impatience, but otherwise seemed pretty absent-minded. 

Had he just imagined that look, earlier? Maybe all Fergus’s talk of infiltrations and warnings about assassins was just getting him a little paranoid.

Still. Someone was going to need to lock up those silver chalices soon. It would probably be damaging to their relationship with the Wardens if they had to arrest one of their recruits for theft.

Ser Gilmore met him just down the corridor. “Finally! The Teyrna told me the Teyrn had summoned you, so I didn’t want to interrupt. Did you convince him to let you come with him?”

“Not quite, but I think I’m finally getting somewhere. We got some guests that kind of interrupted the conversation. Have you seen the Grey Wardens staying here yet?”

“I have. I spoke briefly with Ser Duncan when they arrived a few hours ago. Apparently they’re here to rest on their recruitment mission. I think there’s been some talk of them testing me, actually,” Gilmore said, sounding quite dazed at the thought. “Can you imagine? Me, a Warden?” 

“I can imagine it. What do you think? About joining the Wardens.”

“I don’t know. I’ve always planned on living my life here in Highever. I’ve never really considered anything besides this. If nothing else, having the opportunity is… exciting? Interesting? Frightening? Take your pick.” Gilmore turned to him with a considering look. “Though honestly, I’m surprised they’re not trying to recruit you. You’ve won plenty of tournaments, and you’ve trained a good portion of our more recent soldiers in combat yourself.”

Peter shrugged. “It was mentioned, but Father put his foot down. I don’t think I’d want to be a Warden anyways.”

“Fair enough. Fun to have the option though, isn’t it?”

“I suppose. I won’t lie, I’m partial to keeping you around Highever. Who else is going to smuggle the mabari pups bacon with me when the kennel master isn’t looking?”

“Aw, I’m touched—oh! That reminds me, I came to find you because that hound of yours has the kitchens in an uproar again. Nan is threatening to leave. Again.” Ser Gilmore said cheerfully. 

Peter barked a laugh as the two of them started walking towards the kitchens. “That’s what, three times this week she’s threatened to quit? She was my nurse, and she’s been here since Fergus was born, and I swear she’ll be here ‘til he dies.”

“Fair enough, but your mother disagrees. She insists we collect the dog immediately. You know these mabari hounds. They listen only to their masters; anyone else risks having an arm bitten off.”

“Lady knows better than to hurt anyone.” He’d made sure of that when Fergus had Oren—on no account would Oriana or Mother allow Lady near the boy unless she was properly trained.

“Gentle as she can be, she’s got a wicked set of teeth and she’s not afraid to use them if she thinks she needs to. She’s still a wardog, after all. We should get her before Nan has a stroke,” Gilmore said, “You’re quite lucky to have your own mabari. Smart enough to talk, my father used to tell me.”

“Indeed. Smart enough to talk, and wise enough not to say anything,” Peter laughed, “She gets bored so easily though. I’m convinced she stirs up trouble just for entertainment.”

Shrieks, howls, and the clatter of something falling over echoed down the hall, and they both winced slightly at the sound. 

“Come on then, let’s hop to it. When Nan’s unhappy, she makes sure everyone knows.”

They followed the commotion to the kitchen and found Nan giving the kitchen staff an earful. He’d been on the receiving end of Nan’s lectures enough times to relate to the poor elves. She rounded on them when Gilmore made their presence in the room known, and Peter couldn’t help but shrink slightly under her gaze. Maker, she was almost as scary as Mother.

“Your bloody bitch keeps getting into my larder! That beast should be put down!” Her face was red and veins were popping. This kind of stress was likely not good for her health. 

Peter held up his hands in a placating motion. “I’m sorry, Nan. I’ll get her out of your way.”

Nan huffed, crossing her arms. “Just get her gone. I’ve enough to worry about already with a castle of hungry soldiers!” Nan said as she ushered the kitchen staff out of the way. 

Peter opened the door with a sharp whistle, calling Lady’s attention before he’d even stepped fully into the room. His faithful mabari focused on him, bright eyes gleaming, before turning away and pacing the larder, nose to the stone sniffing rapidly.

Peter watched her curiously as she investigated a shelf of cheeses, before abruptly pawing at it, knocking a rather large wheel or Orlesian cheddar onto the floor.

“Ah, look at that mess. How did she even manage to get in here?” Gimlore wondered, surveying the state of the room. 

Peter moved to stand next to his dog. She cocked her head up at him briefly before growling intently at the cheese shelf. “I think she’s looking for something… and I don’t mean steaks.” He gripped the shelf and shifted it. No sooner had he moved it a few inches than rats the size of small dogs began scurrying from a hole in the wall.

“What the—!” Peter stumbled backwards, but not quick enough, and one of the rats bit him in the ankle, sharp teeth piercing through his boots. His hand went to his great-axe, but Lady was quicker, grabbing the rat by the neck and crushing it in her jaw. 

He and Gilmore pulled their weapons, and went to work on the rats. Barring a few nicked toes and minor scrapes, the large rats proved to be more gross than genuinely dangerous. Twenty-some rats lied in the storeroom in various states of stabbed, beheaded, and mangled by the time they were finished. 

“Well,” Peter said, whipping the edge of his weapon with a cloth, “at least we caught it before it turned into a full-blown infestation.” 

“This is like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell,” said Gilmore. “Looks like Lady chased them in here through their holes. Guess she wasn’t raiding the larder after all.”

“That’s right! Who’s a smart girl? Who’s a genius little Lady? You’re such a good girl, yes you are!” Peter cooed, scratching her behind the ears. Lady panted heavily, blood staining her snowy fur, and wagged her stub-tail excitedly.

“Right. Well, with that taken care of, I’ll be off. I’m to help prepare for the arrival of more of the Arl’s men,” He said, turning to go.

Peter caught him by the shoulder. “One thing—can you have some guards keep an eye on the Warden Recruits? Seems one of them might have a case of the sticky fingers, and another one… makes me uneasy.”

“Wardens do come from all walks of life, I suppose. I’ll set some men to it.” Gilmore re-opened the larder door, and as soon as he did Nan stormed in, tunnel vision of anger focused on Lady. Gilmore gave him a sympathetic look and slipped out. Peter couldn’t help but be a little envious.

“There she is, brazen as you please, licking her chops after helping herself to the roast, no doubt!” She bellowed. Lady barked, spinning in place, stepping on several rat corpses. It took a second for Nan tp put it together, but she did in short enough order. “Eugh, disgusting. Well, at least these filthy things are dead.”

“All that we could find, thanks to lovely Lady here,” Peter said, patting her on the head. 

“I bet that filthy dog let those rats in there to begin with!” Nan said. Lady whined plaintively. “Oh, don’t start with the sad eyes. I’m immune to your so-called charms.” Lady whined again, drooping her ears for added effect. “Oh, fine. Take these pork bits and don’t say Nan never gives you anything. Bloody bitch.”

Lady scarfed down the scraps eagerly, enthusiasm restored. 

Peter turned to her after they left the kitchen with a knowing look. “You know, that was some Grade A manipulation. I think it could even count as extortion.”

She barked cheerfully, wagging her tail as if to confirm she was completely aware of the fact herself. Good girl.

He made a quick stop at the treasury before going to find his family. The guardsmen within jolted as he opened the door, cards falling out of their hands and onto the floor. “Shit! It’s not what it looks like, we were just—oh, thank the Maker, it’s just you.”

“Bit jumpy today, aren’t we boys?” Peter mused.

“Oh come off it, you know the captain’s been on our asses more than usual. Can’t hurt to be cautious,” he said, scrambling to pick up the fallen cards.

“Right, because if the captain had walked in just now instead, it wouldn’t be totally obvious that you’re playing Diamondback instead of guarding the treasury. Very cautions, Gunther.”

“To be honest, I don’t even understand why we’re stationed here. Not like anyone ever comes around here. Well, except you. You didn’t come at the usual time, so we figured you were busy with something and started without you, hope you don’t mind. So, you playing or what? Herbert, deal him in.”

“Not today, I still have some business to take care of, but you blokes have fun.” said Peter.

“Then why’d you bloody come charging in here and giving me a heart attack?” Gunther demanded.

“Just letting you know I wasn’t going to make it, and besides, someone’s got to keep you lot on your toes.” Peter waved good-naturedly, closing the door again and resuming his path down the hall, Lady trotting along after him.

Mother waited for him expectantly in the hall along with a group of people Peter didn’t immediately recognize. “Ah, here you are. I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound that the situation in the kitchen has been resolved?”

“Yes. Lady tracked down some giant rats hiding out in the larder,” Peter said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.

“Ah. That would explain the red on her coat, wouldn’t it? What a marvelous thing for our guests to hear. Oh, darling, you remember Lady Landra of course? Bann Loren’s wife?”

Lady Landra curtseyed in greeting, and Peter bowed in return. “I believe we last met at your mother’s spring salon.”

Peter recalled the event. Recalled Lady Loren now, too. “Ah, of course. It’s good to see you again, my lady.”

Lady Landra giggled softly. “You’re too kind, dear boy. Didn’t I spend half the salon shamelessly flirting with you?” She had indeed. And done so while amazingly drunk. To be fair, Peter had shamelessly flirted back, so she wasn’t wholly to blame. 

The young man standing next to her looked like he wanted nothing more than to hide within the nearest bush. “You did. Right in front of your family, too.”

“You remember my son Dairon, don’t you? I believe the two of you sparred in the last tourney.”

“And you beat me handily, as I recall. It’s good to see you again, my lord.” Dairon said, recovering slightly from his mortification.

“It’s good to see you, too. You fought well that day. I trust your shoulder has healed without issue?” Peter asked, clasping the man’s hand in greeting.

“I’ll admit to some lingering soreness, but father got a mage to do some magical healing and the sprain fixed up with no issues,” said Dairon.

“My apologies for that yet again—sometimes I just don’t know my own strength.”

“And this,” Lady Landra continued, “is my lady-in-waiting, Iona.” The elven woman looked alarmed at being put on the spot and froze up. “Do say something, dear.”

She sputtered momentarily before dipping into a curtsey. “It is a great honor, my lord. I’ve heard many wonderful things about you.” 

“Don’t look now, Eleanor, but I believe the girl has a crush on your lad.”

Iona’s fair complexion flared crimson. “Lady Landra!”

“Hush, Landra. The poor thing’s gone scarlet.” Mother giggled. Peter gave her a wary look—there was a scheming gleam in her eyes. One of these days she was going to make good on all her threats of marriage arrangements. He didn’t want to give more fuel to her plans… but Iona was certainly very pretty.

“Perhaps we could speak later, Iona?” 

Iona must have not been expecting that reaction, because she turned an even deeper shade of red. “As… as it pleases you, my lord.”

“I’m more concerned with what pleases you, my lady.”

His mother sighed loudly and Lady Landra cleared her throat. “I think perhaps I shall rest now, my dear Eleanor. Dairen, I will see you and Iona later.”

“We’ll retire to the study, for now.” Dairen said, starting down the hall with Iona trailing after him. Peter caught her eye as she passed and winked. 

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?” Mother mused.

“I’ve not the slightest clue what you’re talking about.” Peter looked at her innocently, only barely containing a laugh. “Besides, I thought you said you wanted more grandchildren?”

“Once you’re married, yes. But if you have your way that’ll be a while off.” Mother sighed wistfully. “I suppose I’ll just have to dote even more on Oren, then. Perhaps Fergus and Oriana will give him some siblings once the war is over…” 

“Mother… why won’t you let me go with Fergus and Father?”

“Peter, we’ve been over this enough times already. I know it’s difficult to stay in the castle and watch others ride off, but we must see to our duties first. You understand that, don’t you?” It occurred to him then, that she was in the same position he was. Mother was no stranger to battle, and she knew better than he probably ever would what it all entailed.

“I know that. But I could make a difference. I can’t be there for them when I’m stuck here.” 

“You can make a difference by making sure they don’t have to worry about our land and our people while they’re unable to look after it all themselves, by making sure they can come home to an estate that’s well run and cared for. That’s your job. No one else can do it but you. So please Pup, don’t press on this anymore.”

Peter faltered at her words. “Are you… not staying in the castle, then?”

“I’ll be here for a few days, then I’m going with Lady Landra to her estate to keep her company for a time. Your father thinks my presence here might undermine your authority, and Landra has been meaning to get my help with some things at their estate besides.” So there was no helping it, after all. He was staying here. As much as it irked him, he couldn’t fault his parent’s logic. Mother reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand. “Don’t worry dear. It won’t be long.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You twitch your nose when you get anxious.” Peter brushed her hand away, rubbing his nose self-consciously. “I love you, my darling boy. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m twenty-five; I’m hardly a boy any longer.”

“Indeed. I turn around and here you stand, a fine young man in your own right. But that doesn’t mean I have you like it.” Mother sighed, turning down the hall. “Go on then, you’ve got a job to do. I will see you soon.”

He did have a job to do. But first, there was a pretty lady he needed to have a conversation with. He turned himself around and made for the study.

He spotted Iona near the far wall. Before he could even get a word out Lady stepped ahead of him and began sniffing at the woman’s skirt. Peter reached out to grab her collar and pull her back, but Iona squealed with delight and began gently stroking Lady’s fur. 

“She is a wonderful dog! She seems so noble and intelligent,” she said. Lady barked happily under the attention and praise. Iona seemed to remember herself after a moment and regained her composure. “Greetings again, my lord.” She tipped in a small curtsey, and through the shifting of her thick blonde hair he saw for the first time the tips of her pointed ears.

“Greetings, my lady. I will be perfectly honest, I haven’t seen many elven ladies-in-waiting.”

“Lady Landra has been very good to me. I am lucky. If I may, your mother has no ladies-in-waiting herself. Isn’t that unusual for a woman of her rank?”

Peter grinned, leaning against the nearby bookcase casually. “If she found a maid like you, I would certainly encourage her.”

Iona flushed yet again. “You are… very kind, my lord. I am nobody special. You-you make me blush so.”

“The color red does look good on you, in my humble but correct opinion.” Peter winked, very aware that she was taking in his own red hair. She blushed harder, at a loss for words. “So, how long have you served Lady Landra? I don’t recall seeing you at the salon last year.”

The straightforward question seemed to help her regain herself. “My family has been in service to hers for many years. Lady Landra elevated my place as a reward for our loyalty. I hope… well, I hope that one day this position might pass to my daughter.”

Now it was his turn to falter. “You have a daughter?” He did not mean to be so blunt with the question, but it just kind of slipped out.

“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have mentioned her.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright. I’m sure she has your lovely eyes.” Damnit. As far as recoveries went, that was not his best.

“She… she does. My sweet Amethyne. Most people say she looks quite like me. I am the only one who sees her father in her.”

Shit, shit, shit. Peter was entirely thrown off. Had he misread her flustering for interest when it was actually her being uncomfortable? She had a daughter, did she have a husband too, or a lover? He was clearly in the position of power here, maybe she felt like she couldn’t refuse him? Shit, fuck, ballocks. 

“Well, I’m glad Lady Landra has been good to you.” He’d been so damn confident, now he felt like an idiot. He cast about the room desperately, as if the bookshelves could somehow provide the answer to the increasingly awkward encounter. Just when he was beginning to put together something reasonably eloquent, he caught sight of Recruit Amell in the far corner speaking with Dairen. 

The way he’d been looking at Arl Howe… Mother always said to trust his instincts. And right now his instinct were screaming that something was up with that man. 

“It’s been lovely speaking with you, Iona. I’ll leave you to the library.” He started moving before he’d even finished speaking, only barely registering Iona’s startled farewell.

“Oh, my lord Peter! I didn’t see you there,” Dairen said at his approach. The man looked to be bouncing with excitement. “Have you met Recruit Amell? He’s with the Grey Wardens! Can you believe that?”

“I told you Dairon, just Edmund is fine. Greetings, my lord. I know we saw each other in the great hall earlier, but we didn’t really get the chance to speak.”

“A pleasure,” Peter said tensely. 

“Recruit Amell—I mean, Edmund—do you think I’d be able to join the Wardens?” Dairon practically had stars in his eyes. 

Edmund gave him a considering look. “I can’t really say. I’m not even a Warden yet myself, really. If you have an interest you can speak with Duncan, though I can’t promise you anything. It’s not exactly a life many would choose willingly.”

“I know that, but to think I could even be considered…”

“I thought you and your Commander were meeting about strategy with my father and Arl Howe. What’re you doing here?” Peter asked. Did he sound too suspicious? Maybe. Was he suspicious? Definitely.

But Edmund just shrugged. “Oh sure, I’m sure they’re talking strategy and battle plans still. But seeing as that’s not really a conversation I can contribute much to, Duncan told Liri and I to get some dinner and some rest. I think Aothor stayed with them though, which kind of makes sense, considering his background…” He trailed off, eyes fixated on Lady, who’d come to stand by Peter’s side. “Oh, God. Mabari are so much bigger in real life than I thought they would be.”

“You’ve never seen one before?” Peter asked. Was he foreign? Even if mabari were rare, most Ferelden folk had at least seen one before. A possibly foreign element with possibly ill intent in his home… there were just too many possibilities.

“Well, yeah. Not like they let us keep pets in the Circle, you know?” Peter tried to hold in his surprise. A mage. He didn’t know if that was better, or worse. Dairon didn’t bother holding it in and just gaped openly at the Warden Recruit. “What’s his name?” 

“Her name’s Lady.” He watched the mage carefully. He could just be endearing himself to Lady in a scheme to make himself seem harmless. Peter wouldn’t let his guard down. He couldn’t afford to doubt his intuition.

“Hm, okay, that’s different,” said Edmund, holding out his hand for Lady to sniff. Unlike how she’d been enthusiastic to meet Iona, she was more hesitant with the mage, only investigating briefly before turning and sitting at Peter’s side.

“What’s different?”

“What?” Edmund asked, like he didn’t even realize he’d said that last bit out loud.

“What?” 

“Never mind. Anyway, given the timing of everything, I’d guess Duncan and the others are done by now, and I’d better go make sure Liri doesn’t try to steal precious family heirlooms,” Edmund said. “Dairon, thanks for all your help, it really makes things easier for me. Lord Cousland, I expect I’ll see you fairly soon. Lady,” Edmund paused, giving the mabari a heavy look. “look after them.” Lady boofed, tail suddenly wagging. If Peter didn’t know what the mage was talking about, at least she did. Edmund bowed shortly to each of them before leaving the library.

Peter turned to Dairon. “What did you help him with?” 

“He told me that the Wardens are thinking of building a keep here in Ferelden, a sort of permanent headquarters. They don’t have one anymore, not since they’re returned from exile. Everyone knows that Highever is one of the most defensible building in Ferelden, so he wanted to know if there were any blueprints of the building he could look at for a reference.”

Peter stilled, looking at Dairon in disbelief. “You didn’t… oh Maker, tell me you didn’t.”

Dairon just shrugged, oblivious to the panic in his voice. “I mean, I helped him find the blueprints of the castle. A bit old, buried under a couple tomes about Nevarran trade agreements, but mostly accurate and in good condition. Don’t worry, didn’t let him take it. I put it right back in alphabetical order after he was done taking notes.” Dairon gestured to the shelf where said blueprint resided.

If he didn’t have justifiable reason to be suspicious before, he certainly did now. He just happened to want to see blueprints and maps of Highever castle? Sounds like a cover for a quick way to learn the ins and outs of a building. This could be bad.

“Dairon, you’re beautiful, but you’re a bit dense.”

“I’m not—wait, did you just say I’m beautiful?”

Peter turned away, already half across the room, snapping his fingers to call Lady to heel. He stepped into the hall, and the mage was already nowhere in sight. No matter. He needed to bring his concerns directly to his father. 

The great hall was empty, save for some guards on duty and servants cleaning up. With nowhere better the check, he went to find Fergus.

His brother was in his room, along with his wife and Oren.

“Ah, now here’s my little brother to see me off. Now, dry your eyes love, and wish me well.”

Fear for Fergus was evident in Oriana’s eyes, and Oren led onto Fergus’s arm tightly. “Don’t you worry; Fergus is too strong to loose to some measly darkspawn,” Peter said, putting his concerns about the mage on the back burner for the moment.

“He is as mortal as anyone, despite his refusal to believe it,” Oriana said.

“Now love, no need to be so grim. I do wish you could come, Pup. It’ll be tiring killing all those darkspawn by myself.” Fergus aimed a punch at his shoulder. All those unarmed combat practices must have been paying off, because he managed to block it.

“Surely your father would not place both his heirs in danger.”

“I’ve been hearing Mother and Father arguing about it for days. It’s really too bad; I could have used you at my side.” His brother did genuinely sound regretful. It was good to know that at least Fergus was on his side about the whole thing.

“Fergus, about the Wardens in the castle—”

“Wardens? Were they riding griffons?” Oren asked, cutting him short.

“Don’t interrupt, Oren. Griffon only exist in stories now,” chided Oriana.

“I’d heard there were some here. Did they say why they’ve come?”

“They say they’re here to recruit, but—”

“Is that so?” Fergus mused, also cutting him off. “If I were a Warden, I’d have my eye on you, Peter. Not that Father would ever allow it.”

“Not that I would want it, either. I—”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m sure I’ll freeze in the southern rains and be completely jealous of you here, warm and safe,” Fergus laughed. Cutting him off. Again. Was interruption a family trait or something? 

“I am positively thrilled that you will be so miserable, husband.”

“Fergus, I have a message from Father,” Peter said, and that seemed to finally get their attention. “He wants you to take the troops and leave without him. Tonight. Also I need to talk to you and him about—”

“So the Arl’s men are delayed!” At this point, the interrupting was just unnecessary and also rude. “You’d think they’re all walking backwards, at this rate. I’d better get underway. So many darkspawn to behead, so little time!” Fergus stooped and picked up his pack, slinging it over his shoulder and turning to kiss his wife. “I’ll see you soon, my love.”

“I would hope, dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave.”

Peter couldn’t help but jolt slightly at the sound of his father’s voice from behind him, and he turned to see both Father and Mother enter the room. 

Mother took Fergus’s face in her hands and kissed his cheek. “Be well, my son. I will pray for your safety every day you are gone.”

“I keep telling you, no darkspawn could ever best me!”

“Maker sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands, and fathers, and bring them safely back to us.”

“And bring us some ale and wenches, while you’re at it! Er, for the men, of course.”

Peter couldn’t help but laugh as Fergus and Father then tried to explain the term “wench” to the six-year-old, much to Mother and Oriana’s exasperation.

“I’ll miss you, Mother dear. You’ll take care of her, Pete, won’t you?”

“Mother can handle herself. Always has.” She was the Seawolf for a reason, and age had hardly dampened her wit and ferocity. 

“True enough. They should be sending her, not me. She could scold those darkspawn right back into the Deep Roads,” said Fergus.

“Well, I’m glad you find this so funny.” From her own tone, Mother did not equally see the humor in the situation.

“Enough, enough. Pup, you’ll want to get an early night. You’ve much to do tomorrow.”

“Of course. I need a word with you first, Father.”

“No, there will be no last-second change of heart regarding your participation in the battle, or lack thereof.” Mother added without even a beat.

“It’s not about that, I sweat it! Father, please.” he nodded after a moment and followed him into the hall. “How much do you trust the Wardens?”

“I know Duncan to be a good man of sound judgement. The other Wardens I’ve met have been honorable warriors. Why do you ask? You haven’t gotten it into your head that you want to be one, do you? Because the answer is resoundingly no.”

“What? I—no. No, I don’t want to be a Warden.”

Father breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Good, because I’d never hear the end of it from your mother if you did.”

“I’m actually worried about something. You and Mother have always told me to trust my intuition, right? And I just… I think Recruit Amell is planning something. Something bad, here, tonight.”

“That’s a very serious accusation. What brought this on?” Fergus crossed his arms intently, transitioning from Father to Teyrn in an instant.

“A few things. The biggest one is gut feeling. Then just a short while ago he was in the library looking at blueprints and maps of the castle. Apparently he said it was something to do with wanting to build a Warden fortress modeled after Highever, but that reeks of bullshit to me.”

The Teyrn paused, considering. “It could be a simple misunderstanding. I’ll talk to Duncan. He at least, I know to be trustworthy, but it’s true that we know nothing of the recruits. But I’d like to know—what do you intend to do about it?”

Peter blinked, uncertain of what he meant. He’d reported his concerns to the Teyrn. Wasn’t that it? No. That wasn’t it at all. If he was going to be in charge while his family was away, he needed to be able to handle situations by himself. “Recruit Amell is a mage, which makes him infinitely more dangerous if it does turn out that he’s an enemy. I’ll call for a templar or two to come to the castle—tonight, if possible. He’ll need to be monitored while he’s here. And if it turns out that it was all a misunderstanding, we’ll leave him alone and let them all go on their way.”

The Teyrn nodded. “An excellent plan. I’ll have Ser Gilmore summon the templar, you need to head straight to bed. I expect you’ll be even busier than we expected, and you’ll need your rest.”

“Of course. Thank you Father, and… Maker watch over you.”

“May He watch over us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by The Crippling Reality That NPCs Are People, or Lady Is A Very Good Girl And I Would Die For Her.
> 
> I've noticed a theme in my life: if I have Impending Deadlines for Important Academic Things, then I will pour all of my energy into my creative work instead of my homework. Which is great for this fic, and terrible for my GPA. In other news, we've surpassed the 50,000 word mark! Woo! This is officially the longest thing I've ever written.
> 
> Leave Kudos if you liked it. Comment to end my procrastination.


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